*Ava*
Church bells pull me from a restless sleep. The stone walls of Abuela Maria’s house seem to close in around me as I lie in this borrowed bed, and still, I tell myself: this has to be a coma dream.
Yesterday, when Luca said Isabella and Ferdinand were king and queen, it hit me like a blow. I don’t belong here, and I keep hoping to wake up, to open my eyes and find myself at home, or at the very least, in a hospital bed in my own time.
For days, Luca guides me, always with a watchful eye, through Toledo’s back alleys and tucked-away taverns. We find ways to shop at certain vendors in the Plaza de Zocodover, keeping to ourselves through clouds of spice and charcoal smoke.
I recognize the square from illustrations in my lectures, but the smell of roasting lamb and tallow is raw and r
