Blood Secret by Kathryn Lasky Page B

spend thirty minutes in hell having my toes scorched.
    The sisters speak of such dark things. There is somuch talk of purgatory. It frightens me. The sisters remind us of how terrible it will be to see the face of God after death if indeed our sins have not been made up for, our “accounts” not reconciled. So sometimes I picture myself waiting in front of God, a faceless God because I cannot imagine his face, but he is holding an account book, a ledger just like the one Papa writes in the payments or debts for his silver orders.
    So yes, dearest Brianda, I am bubbling with excitement. Although I think it is so sad that your brother Tomás shall be here in Toledo because of our troubles and not with you in Seville for your Communion. However I shall be sending back with Tomás a special medal that Papa has made for the occasion of your First Communion. My veil is very simple. It has lovely butterflies flying upward as if toward heaven. It is after a design of my great-grandmother Doña Grazia. Yes, she is still alive. She is nearly one hundred years old and she no longer works the bobbins. Another lace maker made it. The veil must look simple. My grandparents insist. For during these times itis not right for anyone to show their wealth, especially the family of a tax farmer. And what with Papa a silversmith, we might invite great anger.
    What is your Communion veil like? How long is it? Does it come to your shoulders or below?
    “Beatriz! Beatriz! Your cousin Tomás has arrived. You must get ready for dinner.”
    “Yes, Abuela. Just a minute.”
    I wish Mama would let me wear my hair up in a crown of braids like the big girls. I love the way they look when they walk around the square on Saturday afternoons. If I shall be old enough to take Communion by tomorrow, why not wear my hair up? Of course, even when I am old enough, Mama and Papa will never let me walk around the square to show me off to possible suitors. We are New Christians and that “parade,” as Papa calls it, is considered an Old Christian custom. Funny, isn’t it, this New Christian, Old Christian business. How can my great-grandmother Doña Grazia be considered a new anything at nearly one hundred years old!
    I hear Mama calling again. “Coming!” I shout,and rush downstairs. But just as I am passing my grandfather’s study, I hear a word that makes me stop: “Granada.” I catch my breath. If I press myself into the shadows just outside the study, they will not see me but I can see them. I see Tomás pacing.
    “I think, Don Alvaro and Don Diego, that you must consider Granada.” That is my cousin Tomás speaking. What is he talking about? Granada? I have to listen. I know it is spying. Yet another sin.
    “You, Don Diego, the king recognizes what a fine job you have done collecting for this loan for the country’s defenses.”
    “It is the pueblo menudo ….” Don Alvaro interrupted. “The little people, it is always the lower classes and Governor Sarmiento who cause the problems for the New Christians.”
    What does this have to do with Granada? I wonder. What must they consider about Granada?
    “Look, hasn’t Sarmiento always been hoping for your job, Don Diego, as tax farmer? The resentment has been building against New Christians like ourselves who are successful with good positions, ever since last spring when they passed the pure-blood laws.”
    I cannot stand this talk of the pure-blood laws. Itsickens me. I have been a Christian my whole life. Mama and Papa have been Christians their whole lives. My grandmother converted and was baptized when she was ten. So why do they call us “New Christians,” and impure ones at that? It seems so unfair. Who can help how they were born or who their great-grandparents were? You know, I used to like the word limpieza . I liked its sound. I liked the way it felt on my tongue. It felt a bit like what it meant—“clean.” But now when they talk about clean pure-blood laws, I hate the word. It is