Guilermo walked a step ahead of me. He didn't hold my hand. We couldn't risk that, not here, where the paintings had eyes and the shadows had ears. But his presence was a physical weight. He took up space, his broad shoulders in that black tuxedo cutting through the oppressive atmosphere of the house like a prow of a ship breaking ice.
He radiated a low-level, menacing aura, a silent warning to any guard or servant we passed: Look away. Keep walking.
I followed in his wake, clutching the bottle of the 1988 vintage like a lifeline. The condensation on the cold glass made my fingers numb, but I welcomed the sensation. It gave me something to focus on other than the fact that I was currently committing treason just by being in this hallway with him.
We turned a corner, leaving the main tho
