The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (66)

Once it was only Agustina and Orquídea in the room, the fortune-teller seized her opportunity. She wasn’t going to change destiny. More foolish people had tried and failed. But there was nothing wrong with a warning.

“Protect yourself, Orquídea,” Agustina said. “Protect your heart from brittle things.”

Orquídea laughed her infectious laugh, clutching the delicate fabric of her dress. “You say the strangest things, Agustina.”

“But I am never wrong.” She tapped the girl’s pert round nose and hoped she would listen.



* * *



She didn’t of course. Orquídea fell in love with Bolívar Londo?o the way the sea falls in love with a storm. Nearly seven months after they’d begun their affair, she was convinced that her mother had been wrong. That she’d left her bad luck back in Ecuador.

After their first performance in Amsterdam, Orquídea was supposed to spend a night out with the girls. But something Agustina said had thrummed through her. Protect your heart from brittle things. She had left the people who’d hurt her behind. What did she need protection from when Bolívar was the strongest man she knew, aside from the Londo?o Spectacular Spectacular’s actual Strong Man? He doted on her. Spent every free moment he had with her. He bought her dresses and furs. Made her heart feel like the pop of a cold bottle of champagne. He’d given her a new name and chosen her face for the posters. Her, Orquídea Divina.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the unease in her belly. She abandoned dinner with her friends, vowing to meet them at a pub later that night. Instead, she returned to the hotel in search of Bolívar.

When he answered the door, he must have been expecting room service because there was a note folded in his fingertips. As it dawned on him that it was Orquídea at the threshold, he shoved the note back in his robe pocket. He barred the entrance to the door, pulling his robe closed but not before she could see his naked body beneath, the imprint of red kisses across his torso.

“Mi divina,” he said, a strangled high pitch escaping his mouth. The blue of his eyes bright with panic. “You said you were going to the burlesque tonight.”

Behind him several feminine voices called his name. She didn’t need to see them. Before he could reach for her, to beg her not to hate him—not to leave him—she ran. She took the stairs two at a time, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the corridor. When she finally stopped, she found herself in the basement of the hotel.

She heard it then. A resounding boom. Once. Twice. Then the words susurrating on her skin. “Find. Me.”

She’d heard that once before.

Hurrying, she turned a corner. A looming figure was at the door—Lucho, whose sole purpose was to guard the cargo. What else was behind that door? He was nearly eight feet tall and his family was from every corner of Colombia. His father had been Bolívar II’s guard and Lucho was Bolívar III’s. He was blind out of one eye, and still sported a scar from the brawl that had nearly cost him both. When he realized it was her, he stood from the chair where he usually sat for hours.

“Divina? What are you doing here?” He asked, concern in his voice.

Lucho protected Bolívar, and she realized he must have known. They all must have known. Protect your heart from brittle things. But who could protect her from herself?

She took a deep breath and gathered worry into her voice. “I just couldn’t find Bolívar. Have you seen him?”

He scratched at his black beard and averted his eyes to lie. “Not in a few. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Not to worry,” she said. “Silly me. I checked everywhere but his room…”

“Wait!” Lucho’s heavy baritone felt like a gut punch. “I’ll go find him. You shouldn’t wait here, it’s cold.”

“Thank you.” She yanked him close and he peeled her off him, as if he was afraid to touch her because she belonged to someone else.

Orquídea pulled her fur around her tightly and followed Lucho as far as the lobby bar. But as soon as Lucho’s back was turned, she returned downstairs to the storage room. A pulse of light spilled from the seams of the door.

Find me, the voice had said once. Now it said it again, and Orquídea wondered if perhaps she’d been wrong. It wasn’t Bolívar or the circus whom she was supposed to find that night, all those months ago. It was the Living Star. But why? What did he want from her?

She withdrew the key she’d pickpocketed from Lucho when she’d hugged him and turned the lock. Crates and suitcases were stacked inside. The lioness and horses and dogs were kept on the grounds, but this place was meant for only Bolívar to access.

Within an iron cage stood the figure made of light that she’d seen at every show, every night, from a distance. A trick, she’d thought at first. But now she wondered at him. Beneath the light, she could see his eyes. Incandescent, like the swirls of a galaxy trapped within his irises. It was the only detail of himself that he revealed.

“You found me,” he said, and his voice was like the haunting note of an organ.

She stepped closer. “What do you want from me?”

“Your help.”

She went closer still. Wrapped one hand around the cool iron bar. Beneath the glow she could see that he was naked. Was he cold? When she blinked, he was in front of her. His fist above hers around the iron bar. She willed herself not to scream, not to jump back.