What is one to do?
José Rizal's question echoed in the silence he left behind, twisting itself into a dozen more. What can I do? What should I do?
I stayed on the balcony, the cool stone beneath my palms a grounding force against the storm in my mind. My initial surge of guilt over Felipe was now tempered by a colder, more terrifying fear: the butterfly effect.
My greatest advantage wasn't just the locket; it was my knowledge of history. I knew the broad strokes of what was to come. I knew of the Katipunan's growing strength. I knew of Rizal's eventual execution, a martyrdom that would ignite a nation. I knew the Spanish-American War was coming, a conflict that would sweep the old regime away. This knowledge had been my security blanket. I was an observer on a predetermined path.
But now, I had reached out and plucked a thread. I had saved Felipe. A boy who, in the original timeline, might have been shot dead on our ballroom floor. What did that change? Was his life a insignificant variable, or was his survival the first domino in a chain I couldn't predict?
If I give the revolutionaries medicine, I save lives. But does that make them stronger too soon, leading to a bloodier, earlier crackdown? If I warn Rizal, could I prevent his death? But would a living Rizal be more or less effective than a martyred one? His death is a rallying cry I've read about in history books. Could I rob a nation of its symbol?
The weight of it was paralyzing. I held the power to change everything, and the certainty that any change could unravel the future I knew into something potentially worse. I could fix a single injustice and accidentally cause a thousand more.
Is it better to do nothing? To be a witness? To ensure history unfolds as it 'should'? The thought felt like a betrayal of my own soul. Of Sol, who built things. Of the woman who saw a boy about to die and stepped forward.
I thought of my father's warning. Of Rizal's sad, knowing eyes. They were both right. Caution was necessary. But so was action. The trick was in choosing which action. Not a grand, heroic gesture that would get us all killed, but a smart one. A silent one.
A name drifted into my mind, a title bestowed by no one yet. La Anónima. The Anonymous One. A ghost. A whisper. A source of aid that could never be traced back to the Villa-Real ballroom.
The idea was a lifeline in the sea of my anxiety. I didn't have to choose between being Ines the debutante and Sol the revolutionary. I could be both. I could be the mask and the ghost behind it.
The decision crystallized, not as a detailed plan, but as a direction. A purpose. The frantic, scared energy inside me began to still, channeling into a cold, sharp resolve.
I took a deep breath of the night air, squared my shoulders, and turned my back on the dark, quiet garden. It was time to go back inside. The performance wasn't over yet.
Re-entering the ballroom was like diving into a warm, noisy ocean. The shock of the arrest had been metabolized by the crowd; now it was just a delicious piece of gossip, a thrilling story to be recounted over champagne flutes. I was immediately swept up in the current.
"Doña Ines! What a thrilling evening!" gushed Señora Arroyo, the wife of a tobacco magnate. "You were so brave to speak to that awful man!"
I offered a modest, fluttering smile, tapping her arm playfully with my fan. "Brave? Oh, no. Just terribly cross about the floor! Papa would have been furious if they'd stained the parquet." I let out a light, airy laugh that felt foreign in my throat. "One must think of the practicalities."
It was the perfect response. Shallow, materialistic, and utterly believable. They all laughed, charmed by my supposed frivolity. I had successfully framed my act of defiance as an act of bourgeois concern. The mask was back on, and it was flawless.
I moved through the room, a master of this delicate dance. I complimented a judge's wife on her feathered headpiece. I listened with wide, apparently fascinated eyes to a cavalry officer's boring story about his horse. I discussed the merits of French lace versus Belgian with a group of young women, all the while feeling the weight of the locket against my chest, my secret compass.
Then, I saw my opening. My father was speaking with a small circle of men—serious, powerful men whose faces I recognized from the political circles Iñigo moved in. There was Governor-General Blanco himself, along with a few high-ranking Spanish officials and a couple of influential ilustrado businessmen.
This was the inner circle. And I, as the charming, apolitical daughter of the host, had an invitation to its periphery.
"Papa," I said, gliding up to the group and dipping into a perfect curtsy for the Governor-General. "Your Excellency. Gentlemen. I hope you are all enjoying the evening despite the… earlier excitement." I infused my voice with just the right blend of respect and playful chagrin.
"Doña Ines," the Governor-General said, offering a polite smile. "A memorable start to the festivities, to be sure. You handled yourself with remarkable composure."
"One does what one must," I said with a slight, self-deprecating shrug. I turned to one of the businessmen, Señor Alonzo, who I knew from Iñigo's reports was frustrated with the port authority's delays. "Señor Alonzo, I must confess, I overheard you speaking of the port and it reminded me of the most tedious journey I took from Europe. The delays in unloading were simply interminable. It made me wonder, would it not be more efficient for everyone if the process were… modernized? Even just a little? Faster ships mean more trade, and more trade…" I let the sentence hang, smiling innocently. "…well, it means more beautiful gowns from Paris, for a start."
The men chuckled. But I saw the flicker of interest in Señor Alonzo's eyes and, more importantly, in the Governor-General's. I had just repeated Iñigo's proposal about the port taxes, but I'd packaged it in the language of frivolity, making it seem like a whimsical observation from a silly girl who liked dresses.
My father caught my eye. There was no smile on his face, but a deep, profound understanding passed between us. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He knew what I was doing. I wasn't just playing a part; I was weaponizing it.
I had disarmed them with a smile and a curtsy, and in doing so, I had just planted a seed of a idea that could help the very people they oppressed. It was a tiny act. A whisper.
But as I excused myself from the group, leaving them to discuss "the clever girl's amusing notion," I felt a surge of power far greater than any I'd felt as Sol.
History had its currents, vast and powerful. I couldn't stop them. But perhaps, as La Anónima, I could learn to navigate them. And maybe, just maybe, I could help steer the ship.