**English version of the WATTYS 2019 WINNER story**
1672, Caribbean Sea.
He lost everything for her. She risked everything for him.
But maybe love is not enough to bridge over so many deep differences between them, and the only way for them is goodb...
They had dinner at the daily dining room, which made Dolores feel brave enough to come down wearing a simple-but-more-comfortable dress. The door to the kitchen stayed open. The night guard was having dinner there, even though he was busier wooing the maids than watching the prisoner. As they sat down to eat, Dolores chided Marina over her ordinary clothes. The girl saw Castillano agreed with Dolores and turned to Alma. The housekeeper faced the other two with a serious frown.
"In case you have no eyes in your faces, this girl doesn't need silk and laces to be beautiful," she scolded them.
Castillano turned to Dolores. "And thus, a total stranger has stolen from me in a short day the unyielding affection of the woman who raised me like a mother. That's how you are, women. I should have joined Juan Martin for dinner."
The soldier stuck out his head when he heard his name.
"Dice until dawn tonight, Juan Martin," Castillano said. "I need some fellowship after finding myself surrounded by these untrustworthy creatures in skirts."
The soldier knuckled his forehead, chuckling. "My pleasure, Cap'n."
Dolores still felt that she needed to sleep for a whole week before being a little restored, so she excused herself after the desserts and went back to her room.
Marina helped Alma to pick up the service and followed her to the kitchen. There, the woman sent the servants to sleep and the soldier to the next room.
"Go, humor your fellow, I'm bringing you wine."
Castillano frowned when he saw her close the kitchen door. "What are the two of you up to?"
Alma winked at him. "Mysterious things."
He shook his head, chuckling.
As soon as they were alone in the kitchen, Alma brought a small bottle of laudanum, while Marina set a bottle and two glasses on a tray.
"We can't mix it with the wine," the woman argued.
"Let's try the glass as see how it works out," Marina replied.
She folded a kitchen cloth and wetted an end in the laudanum, then she rub the inside of one of the cups with it. She took the tray to the men herself, filled the glasses and handed them to them. As soon as Castillano sipped his wine, she used a fitting shy tone to address him.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Captain, but could you show me where I can find a book to read?"
She swallowed a sigh of relief when he stood up with his glass still in his hand and waved for her to follow him. Marina controlled the dark distress that assaulted her as they crossed the main hall. As soon as they walked into the library, she closed the door and raised a finger to keep him quiet.
"Don't use any other glass but yours," she warned. "I'm seeing if I can put your night guard to sleep."
"What for? Juan Martin sleeps like a log when he's up for the night shift. You'll hear him snore yourself."
"It's just a precaution. In case we need it."
Castillano shook his head, pointing at one of the bookshelves covering the walls from floor to ceiling. "Grab a book. You cannot go back with empty hands."
Marina took a random book, with nothing written on the back and the covers tied with a black ribbon.
He frowned when he saw it. "What book is that?"
"You ask me? It's your library."
Castillano took it from her hands and put his glass by the lamp to untie the ribbon and leaf through the pages. Marina was surprised when his face reflected curiosity first, then disbelief.
"Captain...?"
He looked up at her as if he'd seen a ghost. "This is no book," he muttered. "Why did you pick it?"
"Didn't you tell me—?"
"Why this one, Velazquez?" The urgency in his voice fed the girl's surprise. "It's my damned library and I'd never seen it! And you come here for the first time and pick it, out of a hundred! How the hell can it be?" He slapped it closed. "This was written by my father!" he snarled. "Looks like a journal."
Marina's eyes widened, her lips moving without a sound. She shook her head. "I— I don't know, Captain, I— I only grabbed the first book I saw."
"Well, grab another one. This is not your business," he grunted.
Marina did so and muttered, "Good night."
Castillano watched her hurry across the main hall and up the stairs, the book tight to her chest in her folded arms, avoiding to look at the room. He looked down at the journal in his hands, still grunting under his breath. He grabbed his glass and went back to the daily dining room. There he was forced to nail a smile to his face and sit to play dice with his watchdog.
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The soldier was soon yawning, and had a hard time to keep his eyes open. Whatever the child had done, it seemed to work. Castillano patted the man's arm.
"Let's go to sleep, Juan Martin," he said, standing up.
The soldier replied with a sleepy nod and followed him down the corridor across the main hall. Castillano pushed an armchair to his door's side and had to help the man sit down. He retrieved the book Marina had found and walked into his bedroom.
He took his clothes off, glancing at the journal on his bed. It wasn't crazy that his father had kept one. Many businessmen did. However, the quick glimpse he'd caught of it didn't look like business notes. He put it on his nightstand, blew the lantern off and got in bed. He closed his eyes with a heartfelt sigh. He didn't want to read his father's journal. Not that night. What could it say that he didn't know already, or that could be of any interest?
He was exhausted. Having the child there was a tough test in all kinds of levels. He rested an arm on his forehead and his thumb stroked his fingertips gently, reliving the feeling of caressing her naked shoulder. Firm, soft, inviting. And the way she'd brought it up, like calling for his hand to cover it further. And then for his hand to slide down, dragging sleeve and collar down with it, for his lips to discover what they hid.
His eyes opened to the night outside his window. If he sneaked out to the garden, the tamarind-tree branches would give him a ladder straight to her window, exactly above his bedroom. The only window of the house from where a tiny patch of sea could be spotted past the roofs.
He knew he'd find it open, to let in every little gust smelling of the sea. And the child would be sleeping in what once was his own bed, wearing only a light summer nightgown in that warm night. She'd sleep deeply, feeling safe, like he'd seen her in the Trinidad riving.
He turned his back to the window, grinding his teeth. Entertaining his imagination in his desire wasn't a good idea. At all.
