The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (57)

Bolívar Londo?o III trained his whole life to be a performer, watching his father’s sideshow turn into a full-blown circus. But he’d always longed for more. He learned how to use alchemy in a way most people could only dream of. He discovered how to make those dreams transmutable, tangible. Under his reign, he transformed the show he inherited into the Londo?o Spectacular Spectacular.

From a very early age, Agustina, the fortune-teller from Málaga, predicted his future. He’d live to be eighty-seven and father one son, but the Londo?o line would end with him. Still, he’d be adored by audiences around the world. Just like his father, and his father before him, Bolívar III had the same devil in his smile. Sapphire eyes. A jawline that could have been engraved on a coin. He’d shatter hearts in every continent, and on several seas. He’d grow to be charismatic beyond belief, and well endowed, though some would say too well endowed, and even then, others might say it was really a matter of endurance. Bolívar III’s good fortune would only be marred by a small flaw, his Achilles’ heel, and that was his weak heart. Not fragile, but brittle. Incapable of carrying the weight of love, even when he wanted it to.

When he met Orquídea, he desperately wanted it to.

He loved everything about her. The shape of her legs, the burnt sienna of her skin, the way her innocent smile made him want to stop breathing. So enchanted was he by Orquídea Montoya, that he smuggled her on the ship to Paris, and figured out a way to procure her documents. She’d had a small backpack to her name, carried her birth certificate folded into a little square. She had no passport, no family. She had no table manners, and swore like the stable boys, but none of that mattered.

On her first night as La Sirena del Ecuador, he missed his cues several times. Only his crew noticed, of course. Bolívar III didn’t make it a habit of bedding the new performers. The idea of having a family felt like something better suited for other men. After all, he was left in his own father’s dressing room after his mother ran off with the Ukrainian contortionist. Before that, his father had been orphaned. And before that, his grandfather had been abandoned. He knew there was a weakness in his heart—his lineage—and took great care to not spill his seed where he did not want it to grow. Not after the Italian Knife Thrower had nearly bludgeoned him to death when their tryst fizzled. And so, he did his best not to linger at Orquídea’s set.

He failed. He looked hard and long. If he’d been a simple man, he’d have accused her of bewitching him. As she glittered under the spotlight, he felt himself stop breathing. More humiliating was Horacio the Hunchback snickering as he walked past him backstage. Bolívar hadn’t been sure why the stagehands were snickering until he looked down. He adjusted his erection straining against the buttons of his tailored slacks. He took a lap. Splashed cold water on his face from the stable troth. Ran a wet hand against the back of his neck and returned to see the end of Orquídea’s set.

He wasn’t sure if the show was made more radiant because of her, but when the pink clam shell opened and she danced and moved her body like she was suspended on a wave, it was over for him.

He complimented Mirabella, the seamstress, for tailoring Orquídea’s scalloped mermaid tail and matching the sheer materials to her perfect skin.

When he showed up at the cabin that she shared with Wolf Girl and Agustina, he purposely avoided the old fortune-telling witch’s eyes. Bruja, she was. Always filling his head with nonsense about being careful of destiny. What did he need destiny for when he had stumbled on the greatest power known to man?

“Se?orita Montoya,” he said. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the opera tomorrow night?”

She said no.

And he wanted her more.

Orquídea knew to be wary of men. Bolívar had been kind to her. Helped her escape the Buenasuerte house. But he was also too beautiful to belong to anyone. Not truly. It was a funny thing that people warned of the dangers of pretty women, that there was power in beauty. But Orquídea thought beautiful men were even more dangerous. Men were already born with power. Why did they need more? She’d been witness to girls in her school and neighborhood who fell prey to those men. They ended up the same—pregnant and penniless. Like her mother. She did her very best to resist his charm.

Still, when she was near him, she perked up like a flower toward the sun. Bolívar Londo?o III could have had anyone in the circus, but he wanted her when no one else had. Didn’t that mean something? When he looked at her, she felt every brick she’d built around her heart come crumbling down.

Until finally, she said yes.

Bolívar was going to be patient when it came to her. If she wanted, she could have whatever she wished. He would turn himself into a fucking genie just to make her happy. When she’d appeared at dawn, after he’d asked the heavens for his true love, she felt like the answer to every prayer he’d ever made. Fuck destiny and fuck Agustina for saying that his heart was brittle. When he was with Orquídea, it had never felt stronger. Beat harder, faster.

Everyone in the carnival loved her. She helped Wolf Girl brush the tangles out of her hair. She made teas for Strong Man’s muscle aches. She went swimming with the Seal Boy when no one else wanted to. She listened to Agustina’s predictions without laughing. Unlike the others, she never asked for her own future to be unveiled. He wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe, or if she didn’t care. He eavesdropped one night and heard Orquídea say she didn’t need a psychic to remind her she’d been born cursed. His Orquídea. His whole heart. Cursed? He’d have none of it.