During dinner, silence lingered between them for a while. Francisco wanted to bring up the matter of the ceremony, yet for some reason, he was unbearably nervous.He couldn't understand why. He and Catalina had known each other for years—since childhood, really—yet seeing her so radiant that night made his heart pound as if they were strangers meeting anew.
Finally, he gathered his courage from who knows where."Catalina," he began."Francisco," she said at the same time.
They looked at each other and laughed softly."Sorry—you go first," Francisco offered.
Catalina took a slow breath. "I wanted to ask for forgiveness. I don't even know why, but when I heard the story of La Llorona, I felt… connected to her somehow. Even if our love is nothing like that story, I couldn't stop thinking—what if something like that ever happened to us?"
She paused as the innkeeper entered, carrying three plates of bocachico wrapped in banana leaves. The warm scent of roasted fish and herbs filled the room. Catalina waited awkwardly while the woman served in silence and left.
Catalina continued, "She told me that if a legend could make me doubt you, then maybe my love wasn't as strong as I believed. That's why I'm sorry, Francisco. I should never have doubted you—especially over a foolish folk tale."
Francisco smiled gently, his eyes softening. "Honestly, I was about to say something similar. I know I haven't been the best partner. I get too lost in my experiments… too focused on strengthening the family, maybe to the point of obsession. Without realizing it, I started giving you only half my heart."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone low and serious. "Even if politics sometimes cloud my judgment, I shouldn't have let the voices of others influence me. As long as I live, it doesn't matter if my heir isn't Spanish or criollo. And truthfully, I'm certain that by the time I die, those so-called bloodline laws will mean nothing."
He hesitated, glanced toward the door, then rose and secured it with a soft click. When he returned, his voice dropped lower. "After the armory incident, even you father," he said, looking at Carlos, "must have noticed. Whether we like it or not, we're already on the road to rebellion—and it's my ambition that has put us there. Every investigation I pursue requires money. But the moment I earn it, the old men in government and the royal family grow envious; they'll want to seize our tools and resources. Without those, our work dies. So sooner or later I'll need to raise an army to defend it."
He looked her straight in the eye. "And raising an army means declaring war on the Viceroy—and on Spain. That's why I've been afraid, Catalina. Afraid that one day I'll fall in that war, leaving you and our son alone… suffering like Grandmother María once did. That's why I kept delaying our wedding. I thought I could protect you by waiting until the war was over and won."
He smiled faintly, bittersweet. "But a nun told me that holding back love is never wise. So even if I can't give you a grand wedding now, I want to have a small ceremony here, in Mompox's church. Just us, before God. When we return home, we'll celebrate the grand wedding you deserve. What do you say?"
Catalina's eyes shone with emotion—but then tears began to roll down her cheeks. Francisco froze."Did I say something wrong? Are you worried about our families?"
Beside him, Carlos chuckled. "You've made your future wife cry, son."
Francisco ignored him, leaning toward Catalina.
"These aren't tears of sadness," she said, smiling through them. "They're tears of joy. This is more than I could ever ask for. Even if we can't have a grand ceremony now, knowing you want one—it's enough to make me certain you truly love me."
Francisco exhaled, relieved. "Of course I love you. But you haven't answered—will you marry me, even here, in this godforsaken little town?"
Catalina laughed softly. "Of course I will. Though… I wish grandmother María and Isabella could see us. I want their blessing when I walk to the altar."
Francisco reached across the table, his eyes warm. "Then we won't call it a wedding—just a ceremony to bind our souls."
She hesitated, then whispered, "I want to."
Francisco beamed, rose from his seat, and embraced her. "Really? Yes! That's perfect!"
Just then, a knock echoed at the door. The two jumped apart as the innkeeper entered carrying a bottle of aguardiente.
Francisco smiled. "Could you change that for wine? We're celebrating something tonight."
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow but smiled knowingly. "Of course."
As she left, Francisco and Catalina began discussing their plans—the church, the vows, the dress Carlos had promised to find. Francisco admitted he'd already started writing his vows and feared she wouldn't have time to write hers, which made her laugh.
The night drifted on with quiet music from a small band the innkeeper had gathered. They dined, then danced together beneath the candlelight until nearly midnight. When the music ended, they shared a gentle kiss before parting for their rooms.
Carlos, left alone, stepped onto the balcony and sighed, watching the moonlight shimmer over the Magdalena River.
The innkeeper came in after some time, collecting the dishes with practiced hands. She gave a few quick orders to the servants to finish cleaning, then walked over to Carlos, who was standing by the balcony, smoking as he gazed at the river. The faint scent of tobacco mingled with the night breeze.
She chuckled softly. "Feeling sad for your daughter?"
Carlos smiled through the smoke. "It's my son who's getting married," he replied, amused. "Though, I suppose you could say she's like a daughter too—after all, she grew up with us."
The innkeeper smiled and joined him in looking out at the dark water below, where the moonlight shimmered faintly on the slow current. "Honestly," she said, "after all these years working in this inn, this is the first time I've seen a full-blooded Spaniard let his son marry a mestiza. I never imagined I'd witness something like that."
Carlos raised an eyebrow. "I'm not so sure. I've seen plenty of Spaniards marry mestizas—or even indigenous women."
The innkeeper chuckled. "Maybe so. But how many of those Spaniards weren't farmers? Judging by your clothes and the way you spend money without thinking twice, I'd say you belong to one of the wealthier families around here. So it's not just a Spaniard—it's a high-born Spaniard letting his only son marry a mestiza."
Carlos nodded, exhaling slowly. "I understand what you mean. But to be honest, I've always hated that policy—as do many others. And maybe, by the time my grandson is born, he won't have to fear such things anymore."
The innkeeper narrowed her eyes slightly, thoughtful. "I hope you're right," she murmured. With a quiet sigh, she turned and left.
Carlos finished his cigar, flicked it out toward the darkness, and went to his bed, the faint glow of the ember fading into the night.