“Don Mateo,” she said, “I saw him tonight. In the plaza . He was dancing. Not flamenco—something wrong. He wore your grandfather’s suit. And when he danced, the people laughed. But it wasn’t real laughter. It was carcajadas —hollow, ugly, like breaking glass. And after, they couldn’t remember why they were happy.”
That night, the king’s advisor—a man known only as El Duende (The Goblin)—visited Cristóbal in his dressing room. El Duende was tall, gaunt, with eyes the color of a dead fireplace. He wore no suit of diamonds. He wore a black cassock, like a defrocked priest. harlequin espa¤ol