When Casiopea woke it was to the smell of coffee. Tentatively she opened her eyes and stared at the fine, high ceiling, then lifted herself up, leaning on her elbows.
“Good morning, miss,” a maid said.
“Good morning,” Casiopea repeated.
The maid handed her a tray and cutlery. Casiopea, who until this point was used to serving others, regarded the breakfast with wary eyes.
“Mr. Loray has asked several employees from the Parisian to stop by this morning.”
“What is that?” she asked.
The maid frowned. “It is a shop. They are bringing dresses for you. You’ll have to take a bath.”
Casiopea ate the breakfast, hardly chewing. The maid hurried her, saying the dressmakers would arrive any minute now. She was essentially shoved into the bathroom. It was very different from the simple shower she was used to. It had a big bathtub with iron-clawed feet and on shelves there sat dozens of bottles with expensive oils and perfumes.
She filled the tub to the brim and proceeded to pour from a few of the bottles of oils. Roses and lilacs and other sweet-smelling things. At home, she would clean her neck and face in the water basin each morning and was allowed a shower on Sundays, before church. Grandfather said they should not use the hot water, that a good cold shower was what young people needed to keep their heads clear of noxious ideas. Casiopea made sure to leave the hot tap open until the bathroom was clouded with steam. Then she slid into the tub so that the water reached her chin. She had a knack for quiet insurrection.
Once she was done washing away the grime of the road, the water in the tub rendered murky, she splashed out and wrapped herself in a huge towel. She wrung out and combed her hair. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found an extensive number of boxes were scattered around her room, from which three women were pulling dresses, skirts, and undergarments. The women spoke about Casiopea in a direct, unflattering fashion. They knew her, at a glance, a country girl and judged her for it.
“You’d think she’d never worn a corselet,” one woman said.
“Or garters,” another replied.
“Or even stockings. She has a peasant’s legs, quite bare, but at least that means there’s little to shave,” a third concluded.
“What is there to shave?” Casiopea asked, but her question was not answered, and instead the women demonstrated the proper wearing of hosiery and kept talking as if she were not there, or worse, as if she were a doll they were dressing.
The women handed her item after item and asked what she thought. Casiopea, who owned one good dress for church, had a hard time making an assessment, and several times the women chuckled at her stammered answers. She ended up donning an ivory dress with a bright green contrasting sash, so light it frightened her, the hem shorter than anything she’d ever worn. It hit her mid-calf. Grandfather thought the ankle was the proper length for a skirt, but these women insisted this was the fashion.
It looked like the things girls wore in magazines. Reckless, as was this whole voyage.
Charmeuse, voile, gingham in bold colors were heaped on the bed as the maid began to fold the items Casiopea had picked, or at least acquiesced to, placing them in a suitcase. Another maid walked in and said Loray wanted to speak to her.
Casiopea went back to the living room, glad that she did not have to stare at silk brassieres with side laces any longer. The demon smiled as soon as he saw her and, walking toward her, lifted her hand. His raven was not at his shoulder this time; it rested on the back of a chair, cocking its head at them.
“There you are and looking well.”
She nodded, unsure of his intent. He held her hand and kissed it, like gentlemen used to do in the old days. He clasped her hand between his.
“You must forgive me for what I said before. I was rude to you. It is a fault of mine, I can be boorish.”
“It’s fine. Although I wonder why you’ve bothered giving me nice clothes,” she replied, pulling away from his grasp and lightly tugging at the sash adorning her hips. It felt so odd to be attired like this, and she wondered how much he’d spent on her.
“I thought you could use a change of outfit, and I was correct,” Loray said, appraising the girl with a smile. “Besides, it might help us become better friends.”
He was trying to charm her, but Casiopea was not used to being charmed. The village boys scarcely paid attention to her. Had she been a common servant they might have wooed her and stolen kisses, but since she was a member of the Leyva family, however nominally, they did not dare. She had little practice in this arena.
For this reason, rather than blushing or lowering her lashes, she replied with earnest vehemence.
“Somehow I don’t think demons and gods have many friends,” she said.
“You are correct. But I’m willing to make an exception for you, seeing as I have a soft spot for mythmaking. Do you understand the journey you are about to embark on?”
“I know I have to help Hun-Kamé if I am to help myself.”
“Of course, but do you understand what is at stake?” he asked.
She had no idea. A somnambulist, she was placing one foot in front of the other and following whatever path Hun-Kamé traced. It was not a lack of initiative on her behalf: she was utterly confused, unsure any of what was happening was quite real, and reacted based on instinct. She was, however, curious.
“Tell me,” she said, knowing a story lay ahead, as fine as any of the legends and tall tales her father had spun for her.
“Thousands upon thousands of years ago a stone fell upon the earth. It cracked the land, left a scar. And when an event of such intensity takes place, something remains,” Loray told her, and seemed pleased in the telling. “Power, embedded in the peninsula, radiating from it. There is much magic here. In other parts of the world the ancient gods have gone to sleep, for although gods do not die, they must slumber when their devoted cease in their prayers and offerings.
“But here the gods still walk in Yucatán. They can move deep into the jungles, into the isthmus, or they can wander farther north, where the rattlesnakes curl in the desert, though the farther they walk from the place of their birth, the weaker they become. Yucatán is a well of power, and the Supreme Lord of Xibalba can tap into that power.”
“Power,” the raven said.
Loray raised his hand. The raven flew across the room to rest upon his wrist and the demon stroked its feathers.
“Through a series of unfortunate events I’ve found myself chained to this city and wish to escape it. If I can descend into Xibalba, I could transcend the bonds that hold me here…tunnel my way out, so to speak. But I can’t walk around Xibalba without permission.”