He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Por favor, señor. Lemme tell thy fortune,” she whispered into his ear. He turned and gazed at her pitch-black eyes, so dark he could not tell where irises ended and pupils began. “My fortune?” “Si, señor,” she said, nodding. She took his hand and pressed against him, pink palm resting against the white of his flank, dark flesh musky-ripe, smelling of his jissom. “I learnt the secret long ago, when I was but a baby girl in me mama’s arms.” “Whence came thee, wench?” “Hispañola,” she said slowly. “’Tis far and away, across the sea. ’Twas hot. The sun was not pale, like it be here.” He laughed. “That explains your skin! You’ve been burnt to a crisp!” The whites of her eyes disappeared as her gaze narrowed. “No, señor.
