When Francisco stepped out of the house, the city felt brighter than the last time he'd seen it. He paused on the threshold and took it in. "I wonder what this place will look like in six years, when we come back," he said.
Catalina smiled at him. "It doesn't matter. It will change even more once you return with new knowledge."
Francisco's smile widened with pride. "Maybe. And by then… maybe I can marry you."
Catalina's smile faltered. "I hope so."
They walked toward the plaza, which was filling with people. The air smelled of frying dough and wood smoke; lantern light shimmered against plaster walls. Suddenly Francisco noticed an old man sitting on the steps with a battered guitar. The instrument was scarred and slightly warped, but still played. The man strummed with no formal technique, only rhythm, and the sound was honest and raw. A few people paused. A young man brought out a tiple—out of tune but lively—and two Black men grabbed empty barrels and began to beat them like drums. The music caught everyone like a spark.
People began to dance. The steps were a frantic, joyful mix of fandango and Criole-Music: quick footwork, sudden leaps, arms looping in the air. Laughter and shouted calls rose into the night. Francisco turned to Catalina. "What do you think?" he tried to call over the music.
Catalina mouthed something he couldn't hear. Francisco leaned in close and whispered in her ear, breath warm against her skin, "I was wondering if you would dance with me."
Catalina blushed but nodded. They joined the crowd. The rhythm was contagious; they jumped and spun until Francisco was sweating, grinning at the strangers around him. Some mestizos glanced, surprised to see a boy who looked wealthy dancing with them, but no one made a fuss. The plaza simply thrummed with life.
Half an hour later, tired, Francisco took Catalina's hand and led her to the barrels to sit and talk with his father for a while. Catalina pouted. "I haven't had enough—I want to dance more."
Francisco looked apologetic. "Forgive me, my fiancée. I'm a bit tired. Rest for a moment and then we'll go back."
"Promise?" she asked, sulking and smiling at once.
"Promise."
At the barrels, Carlos grinned as he watched the crowd. "You seem to be enjoying the party a little too much," he teased.
Francisco laughed. "Of course—it's wonderful. Why don't you join us?"
Carlos waved a hand. "Later—after the wine runs out. By the way, Mauricio and Sofía were here a moment ago. So was the mayor. They're over there." He nodded toward a table where three people conversed.
"I'll remember this for the rest of my life," Carlos said, shaking his head. "Two members of the most powerful families in New Granada, and the mayor himself, mingling with common folk—enjoying the music, chatting like old friends." He handed Francisco a steaming mug. "Cinnamon and orange—your favorite."
"To you?" Carlos asked Catalina.
"Frutillo," she answered with a small smile.
Carlos laughed as he served her a cup. "I'm seeing a pattern: women prefer strawberry, men cinnamon and orange."
They took their mugs and approached the table. Francisco cleared his throat in a half-joking tone. "May I join you, gentlemen?"
Mauricio, Sofía, and Joaquín looked up. Sofía chuckled. "Of course. Young man—this is your fiancée?"
Francisco nodded. Sofía's gaze lingered on Catalina; the girl's cinnamon-brown skin caught the lantern light. Sofía's surprise softened into admiration. "You look beautiful. I never thought this skin tone could be so lovely," she said with a hint of envy.
Francisco shrugged. "Influence. We've been taught European standards—whiteness as beauty. But here in New Granada…"
Sofía nodded and drew Catalina into conversation, giggling. Mauricio leaned closer to Francisco. "My father is extremely pleased with my investment. He told me to follow you and back any crazy ideas you might have. He even set up a fund."
Francisco smiled. "I'd like that, but I'm leaving for Germany in a month. My ideas won't come to life until I return—maybe in six years."
Mauricio sighed. "A pity. That cement business of yours—controlling the raw materials the way you do, you could earn enough to secure your family for generations. Why do you want to go all the way to Germany, that far-off place?"
"It's not simple," Francisco said. "I want to acquire more knowledge—study things properly before expanding."
Joaquín spoke up, dryly amused. "I support you. At seventeen, it's a good age to learn before you become an old man like me."
Mauricio rolled his eyes. "You're just afraid of him opening more industries and forcing you to work harder."
Joaquín shrugged. "Perhaps. But you know this place is special—one of his inventions brought officials to their knees. The bureaucracy can't stop complaining."
Francisco's face grew serious. "Have you spoken about this governor thing?" he asked.
They exchanged knowing looks before Mauricio spoke. "I'm acquainted with the governor—Francisco Silvestre. To my knowledge, he has no children in New Granada. He's a true Iberian, and even if he had a son, I doubt he'd allow him to serve in a place like this."
"Then why..." Francisco frowned.
"We think someone might be using his name to frighten me," Joaquín said with an uneasy half-smile. "Villa Medellín was poor; I never met the governor personally. It was easy to believe the rumor."
"But that doesn't make sense," Francisco protested. "In Santa Fe de Antioquía you should have been able to learn the truth."
Joaquín shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered. Unless I produced proof that someone used his name to oust me, I couldn't reclaim the mayoralty. Of course, we don't rule out the possibility that the boy is the governor's bastard."
Mauricio cut in. "But my family found no record of any improper relation involving the Governor. He's a military man—disciplined, a moderate reformer."
"So it's more likely someone is trying to remove our mayor," Francisco said.
Mauricio studied him. "Do you think it's related to the cement factory?"
Francisco nodded. "Many people have noticed the fortune the factory is generating. If someone with bad intentions becomes mayor, they could impose policies that force us to compromise—maybe even sell shares to their backers."
Mauricio considered this. "Aren't they afraid of my family or Sofía's?"
Francisco shrugged. "With the profits at stake, they might offend anyone—even the viceroy. Didn't the church nearly come to blows with him over it?"
Mauricio went silent. "Everyone knows of the church's foolishness, then."
Francisco smiled wryly. "Only the upper class talks about it, but it shows how profit makes people ignore risk. My family controls most of the pozzolana supplies—so anyone wanting in needs our consent. They'll try other means if they can't get it honestly."
Mauricio's jaw tightened. "I'll speak to the governor. Better to cut these people off early; it'll make them think twice."
Francisco gave a low chuckle. "Go on then—earn your share."
Mauricio laughed softly. "Leave it to me. There is a reason my family has stood beside the viceroy for generations—we know how to handle these matters."
They sat in the warm glow of the plaza, sipping their mugs as music and laughter swirled around them like smoke and light.