The brisk mountain air smelled of cool stone, pine, and the moss that furred the ground: health-giving air, mindclearing air. Surely it would cure me. Four months after giving birth to little Fernando, and still I was subject to the black clouds that floated through my head, blurring my thoughts and vision, robbing me of an appetite, weakening me. In response to an urgent post to the French court about my illness at the time of its inception, my husband insisted that I take a special Flemish preparation at dinner each day, administered by Katrien. He said that it had cured his grand-mère of a similar affliction. But I gained no strength from it. My bodice hung from the bones of my shoulders even after Beatriz laced it tight.I looked down at Fernando, stirring in my arms. I kissed his forehead. It was not his fault that I was ill. I was not suffering from childbed fever, as some of Mother’s doctors suggested. Nor was I pining away for his father—the ludicrous opinion of many, which Mother warned me not to dispute.
