(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale by Joan Aiken

was new, glossy, heavy, and shining with gilt, varnish, or beadwork. At the end of the large chamber sat two old crumpled creatures like fat toads. Like toads' eyes, theirs did not blink as Conchita led me to them.
    "Mama, Papa, here is Señor Brooke, who was so good to Juana—or, as he is called in England, Lord St. Winnow."
    I bowed, they inclined their heads without speaking.
    Doña de la Trava, meanwhile, laid aside her veil. Turning toward her, as she gestured me to a seat, I had a view of her face for the first time and was hard put to it not to gape like a clown. For she was the most beautiful person I had ever encountered, with perfect features, large dazzling black eyes, her face a faultless oval, and, above all, a skin of such pink-and-white velvety fineness and delicacy that one could only compare it, tritely, to the petals of flowers, white jasmine or geraniums.
    "Do, please, be seated, Señor Brooke," she was repeating graciously.
    Feeling curiously ill at ease, between her startling beauty on the one hand and the two old toads on the other—how could she possibly be their daughter?—I perched myself nervously on a gilt-and-satin chair. Servants offered coffee, small dishes of cakes and confectionary, and flasks of hollands, sirops, and cordials. I took a cup of coffee. I noticed that the old parents were helped to liberal drams of schnapps.
    "Well, Conchita—can the young señor get your children back from that devil in human form?" croaked Señor Escaroz.
    "I pray that God will help me to do so, señor," I said. "But until I know where he has taken them, it is not easy to make a plan."
    "Conchita—show the young gentleman little Luisas letter."
    "It is in my bedroom. Excuse me." And she slipped from the room.
    At first after she had gone, the two old creatures sat silent, sipping their schnapps. Then Señor Escaroz demanded, "And you are the grandson of the Conde de Cabezada?"
    "I have that honor, señor."
    "Your grandfather is still alive?" asked the old lady.
    "Yes, señora, God be thanked."
    "He holds very scandalous political opinions, so I have been told," she remarked acidly.
    "If he does, señora, he can harm no one by them, for he is severely crippled and confined to his chair."
    "Hum!" she snapped, as if to say, that is just as well.
    "How do you come to have an English tide?" said her husband in a suspicious tone.
    "My father was an English officer, serving in the French wars. And
his
father—who is still alive in England—bears an English title."
    Plainly they were about to ask what this was, when Conchita returned. She had a rose in her hair, I noticed. Had it been there all the time, under the veil? The hair was amazingly plentiful, thick, lustrous, and soft-looking, swept up into a great black coil over her temples.
    "See," she said, "here is my poor Luisas letter."
    It had plainly been written in haste on a crumpled, stained sheet of coarse paper.
Dear Mama,
    Do not be anxious about us. But we are rather sad. Papa keeps us locked up, in case somebody tries to take us. And he says he will kill you if you come or send Uncle Amador. Or he will kill himself and us as well. He says he will take us into the mountains where there are bears. Nico sends you a kiss.
    Luisa
    While I was reading this, I heard Señor Escaroz say to his wife in a low tone, "What about the book? Do not let Conchita forget about the book," and she made some mumbling reply.
    "See, here are the children's portraits," Conchita said to me, and she showed me three gilded and heart-shaped ornamental frames, in which were three angelic little faces with pink cheeks and rosy lips. The girl was like her mother, though without Doña Conchitas dazzling beauty; the boy quite different. Like his father, perhaps. He had a bony, heavy-browed face. The smallest one was merely a round-faced baby.
    "Pretty children," I said politely, handing the pictures back. "You must miss them very badly, señora."
    She nodded several times without