"...The cost of action is often a debt," he said, his gaze following where they'd taken Felipe. "And that boy now owes you his life. Such debts are not simple. They tie your fates together."
He led me away to dance, to smile, to perform the final act. I moved through the motions, a beautiful doll. I danced with a provincial governor, with a wealthy merchant's son, my laughter light and carefree. But inside, I was screaming. I had saved a life only to send him into a different kind of hell. The weight of it was crushing.
The opulent ballroom began to feel like a prison, the laughter and music a grotesque mockery of the injustice that had just unfolded. The air was too thick, too sweet with perfume and hypocrisy. I couldn't breathe.
"I need some air," I murmured to my latest dance partner, extracting myself from his hold before he could protest.
I moved through the crowd, a ghost in a ivory gown, until I found a set of French doors leading to a small, deserted balcony overlooking the garden. The relative quiet was a relief. The night air was cool on my skin, a stark contrast to the stifling heat inside. I gripped the cold stone balustrade, my hands trembling, and finally let the mask slip. The calculated expression of boredom melted away, replaced by raw anguish.
I had done it. I had stopped a execution. But at what cost? Felipe was in the hands of the Guardia Civil. Captain Vargas's pride was wounded, and a wounded animal was always more dangerous. And I had put myself, and my entire family, directly in his sights.
The locket felt like a brand against my skin, a constant, heavy reminder of the power I hadn't used. I could have done more. I should have done more.
"A impressive performance in there," a calm, intelligent voice said from the doorway.
I started, turning quickly. A man stood there, a few years older than me, with a kind, thoughtful face and the weary eyes of a scholar. He held a glass of wine but didn't seem to be drinking it. It was José Rizal.
He stepped onto the balcony, giving me a respectful space. "My apologies, Doña Ines. I did not mean to intrude on your solitude."
"It's quite alright, Dr. Rizal," I said, my voice a little unsteady. I quickly tried to reassemble the mask of the unflappable debutante. "It was… a unpleasant disruption."
"Indeed," he said, his gaze not on me, but on the dark gardens below. "It is a common disruption these days. Though rarely so… theatrically staged." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man who knew their weight. "What you did was very brave."
I shook my head, the gesture feeling helpless. "It was stupid. My father said it was a dangerous gamble."
"Bravery and stupidity are often cousins," he replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "The difference usually lies in the outcome, which remains to be seen." He finally turned to look at me, his eyes seeing far more than I wished them to. "May I ask… what compelled you to intervene? It would have been far easier, and safer, to do nothing."
He was gauging me. This was no casual conversation. He was testing the waters, trying to understand the mind of the woman who had just publicly humiliated the Guardia Civil.
I thought of the real reason—the guilt, the primer, the crushing sense of responsibility. I couldn't say any of that. So I gave him a half-truth, wrapped in the language of our class.
"It was barbaric," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of steel. "This is our home. Not a… a slaughterhouse. There is a way things are done." Even as I said it, the words tasted hollow. I was criticizing the method, not the injustice.
Rizal listened, his expression unreadable. He nodded slowly. "There is certainly a way things are done. The question we must all ask ourselves is whether that way is right." He took a small sip of his wine. "It is a difficult line to walk, is it not? For people like us. Knowing what we know, seeing what we see, and yet… living the lives that are expected of us."
His words resonated so deeply it was terrifying. He was describing the exact heart of my conflict. The life of Ines versus the conscience of Sol. The gilded cage versus the locket full of power.
He was silent for a moment, letting his words hang in the air between us. "Your father is a wise man to be cautious. The world is not kind to those who speak truths it is not ready to hear. Especially women."
He was warning me, just as my father had. But it felt different coming from him. It wasn't a command to be silent; it was an acknowledgment of the risk.
"Then what is one to do?" The question slipped out, more desperate and honest than I had intended.
José Rizal looked at me, his eyes holding a profound sadness and a flicker of unwavering resolve. "That, Doña Ines, is the question that keeps us all awake at night. The answer is different for every person. But it must begin with looking honestly at the world, and then just as honestly at one's self."
He offered me a small, respectful bow. "The fresh air has done me good. Thank you for the conversation."
And with that, he turned and left me alone on the balcony, his question echoing in the silence, far louder than the music from the ballroom ever could.
What is one to do?
The locket warmed against my skin, as if in response.
Of course! I'm thrilled you're enjoying the process. Here is Chapter 8, delving into Ines's internal conflict and her return to the social fray.