The Gypsy's Dagger

Chapter One

A SQUARE IN SEVILLE.

As Micaela walked through the streets of Seville, the stony ground clipping under her modest heels, she feared she'd ruin the letter Mrs. Garcia had charged her with. She'd stored it away safely in her leather messenger bag yet couldn't fight the itch of taking it out constantly, if only to make sure it hadn't been stolen, or whisked away by the thick breeze. The feel of the expensive paper gave her a sense of control, though it was little compared to her growing anxiety.

Urging herself towards calmness, she snuggled her scarf against her face, covering her mouth. Though it was the end of spring, the wind could have made it pass for autumn. It rustled the heavy skirts of the women on the street and rippled the shirts of all men. A couple of flyers were torn from a modest stand and sent into a frenzied dance in the air—advertisements to bullfights and plays and church gatherings. Micaela avoided getting hit by one that soared towards her face and took a left turn, ducking into the street that led to the guardhouse of Seville.

As the wind receded, she fixed her hat atop her head to conceal her disarrayed curls. Like the rest of her garments, from her shoes to her dress and coat and gloves, it was light blue—the loveliest color for her honey eyes and brown hair. Or so Mrs. Garcia said.

Upon reaching the iron door of the bedraggled guardhouse, nerves preyed upon Micaela. She gripped the strap of her leather bag as a uniformed officer made his way to the door, which was surrounded by wire fences. The whole place seemed to growl 'go away'.

"Can I help you?" said the officer, all gunpowder and business. He had a stoic face, deeply covered with scars. The green color of his uniform made him look ghastly, highlighting his pale complexion.

"Morning. I ought to deliver a message to Colonel Jose Garcia," she muttered, trying to peer over the man's broad shoulders. "Is he here?"

He examined her slowly: her blue dress, her blue hat, plump cheeks, round eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but shut it as another officer shouted some gibberish at him in a language Micaela couldn't understand—French, maybe? The only word she caught was birdie. "Oiseau." The officer in front of her raised an amused brow. Her stomach tied in knots.

"Is that so?" he finally answered. An amiable smile that didn't quite reach his eyes spread across his features. With the scars running over his cheeks, it looked unnatural. He looked like a broken mirror, she thought. "Why don't you come in, then?"

After fumbling for a set of keys hidden in his uniform, he slid open the heavy door. The rattle of it made Micaela shudder.

An uproar of laughter and whistles erupted, indiscreetly, as she stepped into the guardhouse. How Mrs. Garcia would've disapproved! A sea of men in crisp green uniforms were grinning at her like a pack of hungry wolves—forward shoulders and glimmering eyes. A hand found her lower back, and she swiveled around swiftly, seeing it was the same officer who'd let her in.

"Take a sit, miss, please," he crooned, leading her toward a modest seat to her right. A thin table was placed in front of her, with spindly iron legs curling underneath. Mold rimmed their edges. Sitting down, Micaela refused to let go of her bag. She could not lose this letter.

Her knuckles had turned white on the bag strap. She ignored it.

"Is Colonel Jose here, sir?" she asked again. The officer sat himself across from her, producing a cigarette from his lapel pocket, lighting it carelessly, as if he and Micaela were old-time friends and her heart wasn't threating to stab its way out of her ribcage in fear. Into the mouth of the wolf, that's where I've gone.

"Not presently, no," he lit his cigarette. "But you are welcome to wait for him."

A black cloud of smoke emerged from his lips.

A few of the men closest to her flashed wolfish grins, scooting closer, hands gripping cards, beer bottles, smudged papers which might have passed for letters, and the gleaming handles of guns.

Micaela gulped.

After surveying the severe room around her, with its stark gray walls and flickering lights, and letting the lust-filled eyes of men creep her nerves enough, she stood abruptly and made way for the entrance again.

"Oh, I don't mean to trouble you," she said to the officer with the scarred face. "Do you mind telling me when he'll be back? I can return then."

The scarred officer huffed out a smile as a set of meaty hands landed on her shoulders. A shiver ran down her spine.

"It'll be no trouble at all. These men could use some innocent entertainment, miss... what did you say your name was? Never mind," he motioned towards his peers. Hyenas, Micaela thought. "I insist you stay!"

"No, really—"

"Do you happen to sing, miss?" this was the man holding her shoulders. He stirred her back towards the iron seat she'd taken before. His breath smelled of booze.

"No—not really, I'm afraid."

"That's a shame." His hold slipped.

"I suppose." Micaela shrugged, making his hands leave her completely. As soon as she was untouched, she swirled swiftly as she could and bolted for the exit. She made it as far as the door when the scarred officer took hold of her hand again. With her free one, she gripped the door, yanking it open. She felt its rattle on her teeth.

"Are you truly leaving us?" he asked dramatically. His grip on Micaela was firm enough for her to notice the callouses on his palm.

"Yes!" she yanked her hand back, scurrying past the door, back into the quiet streets of Seville. "I'll come back when Colonel Jose is present!" she shrilled, rushing away.

The clipping of her heels against the hard ground mimicked the frenzied rhythm of her heart. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw the scarred officer pull the door closed. Through the holes in the wire fences around the entrance, the pack of military men kept their gazes trained on her, as if still debating what she would taste like.

A wave of bile crept up her throat and she forced it back down. Her eyes stung. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks—their usual rosy color had morphed into a furious red. Her delicate hands clenched into fists, carving half-moons in her palms.

She cursed loudly, not caring who heard her.

There was no one around to chastise her anyway. Being so early, most of the population in this part of the city was putting in their work hours at the factories lining the streets.

Oh, how she hated the city.

In her stupor, she entirely forgot about Mrs. Garcia's letter, only remembering why she was in Seville in the first place after calming down, settled in her plain room in Claudia's Inn. The place was actually run by Claudia's husband, Abraham: a thought that strike-d Micaela as depressing.

The letter back in her mind, she stretched a hand towards her bag, sprawled next to her in the rumpled mattress. Opening its flap, her finger found the brisk texture of paper. Her heart stilled. A sighed escaped her. In nothing but a brief set of pages, Mrs. Garcia had arranged Micaela's next few days and the course of her future. Anticipation of delivering the letter made her tingle, giving her a hard time recognizing how much were nerves and how much was happiness.

Jose.