The day of the ball arrived not with a bang, but with a slow, inexorable dread, like a tide coming in. I was woken by Liza well before dawn, and the next several hours passed in a blur of scented oils, heated curling irons, and the relentless, careful construction of Doña Ines, the Masterpiece.
My mother was everywhere at once, a general marshaling her troops. "More volume at the crown! The pearls, not the diamonds! For heaven's sake, is that a freckle? Powder it!"
I felt like a prized doll being prepared for auction. Each layer of silk and lace was another bar on my cage. The corset was laced tighter than ever before, a brutal reminder that beauty required sacrifice, and that my comfort was the first thing to be offered up.
Note to future revolutionaries: it's hard to storm the Bastille when you can't take a full breath.
Finally, it was time for the jewels. The heavy sapphire necklace was clasped around my throat, its weight feeling like a collar. And then, the locket. My mother fastened it with a satisfied sigh.
"Perfect. Old and new. Tradition and elegance. You are a vision, mija."
I looked in the full-length mirror. A stranger stared back. A beautiful, empty-eyed girl swathed in a fortune's worth of fabric and gems. But my hand rose to touch the locket. Beneath the cool silver, I could feel the frantic beat of my own heart. I'm still in here, I thought. Sol is in here. And she's pissed.
The first guests arrived as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The house filled with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. I was positioned at the top of the grand staircase, a exhibit on display.
I performed my role flawlessly. I curtsied. I smiled my bell-like, non-horse laugh smile. I accepted compliments with a demure dip of my head. I danced with a procession of young men whose names and faces blurred into one another—a smear of privileged arrogance and limp handshakes.
Dance card full of the future of the regime, I thought as a particularly vapid son of a tobacco baron trod on my toes for the third time. How thrilling.
I caught glimpses of my father through the crowd. He was playing his part too, the gracious host, but his eyes would occasionally find mine, and in them, I saw a shared sense of performance, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.
Then, I saw him. José Rizal. He was standing near a window, observing the room with those calm, intelligent eyes that seemed to see everything. He was here as a guest of my father, a nod to his status as an intellectual, but a palpable distance was kept around him. He was respected and feared in equal measure.
Our eyes met across the room. He offered a small, polite nod. I returned it, my mind racing. What would he do? I wondered. Would he shout? Or would he, like my father said, be smart?
The answer, I knew, was that he was being smart. He was here, inside the lion's den, observing the lions. The thought was a comfort. A reminder that resistance had many forms.
For a moment, I let myself believe the night would pass without incident. That I could play my part and retreat.
The illusion shattered with the violent swing of the main doors.
The music died mid-note. The laughter choked off.
Two Guardia Civil officers marched into the ballroom, their boots echoing like gunshots on the polished floor. The festive atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a cold, terrified silence. And between them, they dragged a bloody and terrified Felipe.
My heart stopped. The world narrowed to the boy's face, swollen and bruised, and the grim satisfaction on the face of Captain Vargas.
"My apologies for the interruption, Don Rafael," Vargas announced, his voice dripping with false courtesy. "We found this rebel filth skulking around your cochera. He claims he works here." He shook Felipe like a rag doll. "He was carrying this."
He held up a crumpled pamphlet. The same type I'd seen in the print shop window. Sedition.
"He is no rebel," my father said, his voice cold steel. "He is a stable boy. Take your theatrics elsewhere, Captain."
"A stable boy who reads?" Vargas sneered. He shoved the paper in Felipe's face. "Who gave you this? Who do you work for? Speak, you ignorant indio!"
Felipe was beyond speech, reduced to ragged, terrified breaths. His eyes, wide with animal fear, scanned the crowd of his betters—the people he served—and found no mercy. Then they landed on me.
In his gaze, I didn't just see fear. I saw recognition. And accusation. You. You gave me the books. This is because of you.
Captain Vargas drew his pistol. The sound of the hammer cocking was the loudest thing I had ever heard. He pressed the cold metal barrel against Felipe's temple.
"Last chance."
Time seemed to warp. I saw my mother's horrified hand fly to her mouth. I saw my father's face, a mask of furious impotence. I saw Rizal, standing perfectly still, his expression unreadable.
And I saw the path. The safe path. The smart path. My father's warning screamed in my head. Bank your fire! Be smart!
But as I looked at Felipe, at the sheer, unjust brutality of it, the fire refused to be banked. It erupted.
Sol's voice, clear and commanding, didn't whisper. It shouted. And for the first time, I let Ines give it life.
I stepped forward. The crowd parted before me. The silk of my gown whispered against the floor, the only sound in the dead silence.
Every eye in the room was on me. The beautiful, empty doll was moving on its own.
Captain Vargas turned, his fury at being interrupted shifting to cold surprise when he saw who it was.
I didn't look at him. I looked at my father, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
"Papa," I said, the word ringing in the silent ballroom. "Must they execute people in our ballroom? It's going to stain the parquet."