The next few days were a blur of silk, sighs, and suffocating expectations. My mother's world had shrunk to the single, all-important goal of my presentación. Our home, usually a place of quiet order, was overrun with dressmakers, florists, and the relentless chatter of my Tita Rosa, my mother's sister, who had arrived to "help."
'Help' apparently means criticizing everything within a five-mile radius while eating all the good pastries, I thought, dodging a seamstress who was muttering in French around a mouthful of pins.
"Stand up straight, Ines! Shoulders back! A Villa-Real does not slouch!" Tita Rosa clapped her hands sharply as the French modiste, Madame Renée, knelt at my feet, her expression one of artistic suffering.
Easy for you to say, Tita. Your corset isn't currently trying to fuse my ribs together. I straightened my spine, feeling the boned garment dig in with renewed vengeance. The gown was a masterpiece of excess—ivory silk, layers of tulle, and the infamous lace from Paris, which was indeed exquisite and felt like spun sugar against my skin. It was also incredibly heavy.
I'm wearing a month's salary for a hacendero worker. And it itches.
"She looks like a queen," my mother breathed, her hands clasped to her chest as she watched from a velvet settee. "A true Spanish queen."
But I'm not Spanish, I thought, the familiar ache returning. And neither are you. The thought was a treacherous one. We were playing a part, dressing in the costumes of our colonizers, hoping to be accepted into a club that would always see us as second-best. We're the help that's been allowed to sit at the table, provided we use the right forks and never mention we're actually the ones who cooked the meal.
"The neckline is too plain," Tita Rosa declared, circling me like a vulture eyeing a particularly well-dressed piece of carrion. "She needs the family jewels. The sapphires. They will remind everyone of her lineage."
"Yes, the sapphires," my mother agreed. "And the matching locket. Your grandmother's. It will add a touch of… old-world elegance."
My hand instinctively flew to my chest, where the locket always rested beneath my clothes. The idea of displaying it so openly sent a jolt of panic through me. It was my most sacred secret. "Mama, is that necessary? It might clash—"
"It might accidentally open and reveal my interdimensional warehouse full of future medicines," was what I wanted to say.
"Nonsense, mija," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "It is tradition. You will wear it."
I fell silent, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. The locket, out in the open for all to see. It felt like inviting disaster. Just your average debutante accessory. Contains enough antibiotics to cause a medical revolution. No big deal.
Later, desperate for escape, I convinced Liza to walk with me to the market under the guise of needing air. Stepping out of our walled compound was like stepping into another country. The manicured silence of our street gave way to the chaotic, vibrant, struggling heart of Manila.
Kalesas rattled past, their drivers shouting. The air was thick with the smell of frying fish, overripe fruit, and unwashed bodies. Vendors called out their wares—banig mats, woven baskets, fresh suman. It was alive, real, and raw.
But the shadow of Spain was everywhere. Two Spanish soldiers in crisp uniforms swaggered past, their laughter loud and arrogant. They didn't pay for the guavas they snatched from a young girl's basket. Her mother simply pulled her back, her face a mask of resigned fear. My fists clenched at my sides. This was the reality my mother's lace and sapphires tried to cover up. This injustice, this daily humiliation.
We passed a small print shop. Taped in the window was a cartoon from a leaflet. It depicted a skinny indio farmer carrying a fat Spanish friar on his back, the friar whipping him onward. Beneath it, it read simply, "¿Hasta cuándo?" How much longer?
My breath caught. It was sedition. Possessing this could get you arrested. Or worse. I quickly looked away, my heart pounding, but the image was burned into my mind.
"Come, Doña Ines," Liza whispered, her face pale. "It is not safe to look."
As we turned to leave, I saw him. Felipe, our stable boy. He was sitting on an upturned crate in an alley, not laughing or playing with the other boys. He was staring intently at a small, crudely printed pamphlet, his brow furrowed in concentration. His lips moved silently, sounding out the words.
The primer. The dictionary. He was using them.
A wave of cold dread washed over me, followed immediately by a fierce, protective pride. He was learning. He was hungry for it. My small act of rebellion had taken root.
But seeing him there, in the open, with such dangerous material… it was like watching a candle flame dance in a room full of gunpowder. My mother's worries about lace and curtsies felt not just trivial, but obscene.
The contrast was unbearable. The gilded cage of my home and the desperate, courageous struggle outside its walls.
That night, as I prepared for bed, I held my grandmother's locket. The familiar warmth comforted me. My mother saw it as a piece of jewelry, a symbol of old-world elegance.
But I knew it was so much more. It was a tether to who I truly was. It was a responsibility. And as I thought of Felipe's determined face, I knew I couldn't just be a observer in my gilded cage. I had tools. I had knowledge.
The world outside was asking, "¿Hasta cuándo?"
And for the first time, I felt a terrifying, thrilling urge to answer. Soon. Maybe sooner than you think.