-Are you all right? -Villarreal asked as he handed him a glass of water.

-No," said Cárcel. My head hurts from thinking so much....

Villarreal watched him curiously. He had known Cárcel since he was a child and this was the second time a woman had suffocated him so much.

-Did he have another attack?

-Yes." Carcel approached the desk and opened one of the drawers. This time he even bit his hand. You can't imagine how much it scared me!

He took out three leather books and extended them to Villarreal, they were the navy records left by Admiral Torres, although one was missing. Cárcel tilted his head to one side when he realized this.

-You'll have to wait," Cárcel announced with disappointment. I don't have the last book yet.

-Really? I thought you called because you had all four ready," Villarreal complained.

That wasn't a lie. I had all four, but somewhere along the line the last one got misplaced. I wish you had lost any of the others and not the most important one, he thought. Cárcel let out a deep sigh.

-Wow, you sure have been stressed out by the proximity of that girl," Villarreal scoffed.

Cárcel gave him a scathing look.

Since his wife passed away he had no contact with other women, only when it came to helping them in dangerous situations, as he did with Magdalena and Alba. However, Alba's presence took him out of his comfort zone, to a certain extent it wasn't bad, but it was still annoying. Worrying about the bouts of madness he gave to bourgeois women? Nonsense! They were trifles to Jail that he had no interest in attending to. To his bad luck, or perhaps fate made him swallow his words, he has mediated two of those "trifles", which have worried him to the point of wanting to call the best doctors in Las Brisas. Yes, that woman's madness was also rubbing off on him. No, you brought this on yourself, you want to stay there, glued to the girl, his conscience reprimanded him.

-Go away, tomorrow you have work to do," ordered Cárcel. I will feel guilty for delaying you.

-How much consideration," Villarreal scoffed. But you know what? I'd rather stay and watch you descend into dementia.

Cárcel couldn't help but laugh at Villarreal's mocking gestures of those wretches who truly fell into madness, until Alba's disjointed face appeared in his thoughts. She ducked her head and cursed herself for being so childish and mocking the calamities of others. She raised her hand in a sign for Villarreal to shut his mouth.

-That's enough. Go away, Alejandro, please.

-Was it too much? -he asked pointedly. He approached Cárcel and grabbed him by the shoulder. I'm sorry, really. Now I'll help you find the fourth book.

He didn't wait for Jail's consent, turned around and started looking through the shelves and drawers of the office. Jail followed him. They checked every corner of the small office, then the two rooms on either side of it, and so on until the entire hallway was examined. Nothing. The last book disappeared without a trace.

Alejandro looked at the clock on the wall at the end of the corridor, it was a little after midnight. Despite his tiredness, he suggested to Cárcel to search the basement of the residence while he went to the second floor, in order to reduce the search time. Jail asked for change, but Alejandro refused saying that he did not know upstairs and this was a wonderful opportunity. He winked and went up the steps two by two. Cárcel stared at his friend's broad back. Relax, he thought, Miss Alba must be asleep by now. Holding back the affliction he forced himself to go on as agreed.

On one side of the stairs was the hallway that led to the living room, in which there were only two sofas, one facing the other; from the ceiling hung a small crystal chandelier, illuminating the place with the faint light of candles; at the back, there was a long gold-plated mirror and under it the fireplace weakened by the lack of coal; on the sides, two windows with dark cotton curtains covering them completely; and, finally, the portrait of Admiral Torres, hanging next to one of the windows. Nostalgia invaded Cárcel. His mentor and friend had disappeared five years ago, and although he had tried to gather information in the different cities of Las Brisas, what he had gathered was useless to begin a formal investigation. Wait a little longer, my friend, he thought.

On the other side of the room, the hallway divided in two; to the right was the kitchen and, further back, the little door to the courtyard where the animals and carriages were kept; and to the left, a spiral staircase descending to the cellar. When Jail opened the dusty, cobwebbed wooden door, he was surprised to see eight shelves crammed with books. Resigned, he entered crestfallen. The early morning would be insufficient for him to go through each one of them and the worst thing was that he wasn't sure that the whole set of pages was there. That's what you get for being benevolent, he chided himself. Jail shook his head. He was kind to that poor woman because he was born to be, no one put a gun to his head and forced him. Complaining made his goodwill renegade on its own, besides, she wasn't responsible for the distraction he had at work. With that in mind, he picked up a small chandelier hanging on the wall and closed the door. She scrolled to the bottom shelf. The layer of dust was so thick that the titles were almost impossible to read. Still, he brought the candlelight closer and, straining his eyes, brought his jovial face closer.

In that way, he began to walk through the place.

Dirt soaked into the white lapel he wore, changing to a dull, lifeless hue. Standing in front of the last shelf was Jail leafing through one of the books. From lack of sleep his eyes turned red and his neat hair became a poorly done bird's nest. In that state nothing differentiated him from a drunk returning home after an evening full of ordinary beer. The pair of sapphires closed consecutively, until a nod brought him to his senses. He shook his head and opened his eyes as wide as he could, chasing away the drowsiness that was trying to subdue him.

The book in his hands was called Chronicles of a Dead Nation, written by the famous Ignacio Paramo, who at the young age of fourteen was chosen, thanks to eloquent narrations, by King Hector V to serve as the new scribe; the appreciation he gained from the people was not enough to prevent his expulsion from the court after the death of the sovereign. Frustrated and sad, Páramo took the first ship that took him to the neighboring nation of Galarda, where he settled and, from there, continued to pour his reflections and knowledge on ocher paper. Where did you get this collection from, he wondered.

The volume was divided into two sections, the first entitled Vision of the Supreme Autocracy, which narrates the daily life of the nobility: dukes, counts or marquises working on affairs of state from home, while their wives go to and fro enjoying teatime, going to mass or shopping for clothes, if not hair, ear or neck accessories, and the same with the bourgeoisie, that is, it represented the positive side of the tumult of more powerful people; however, what follows turns dark. The epigraph went like this: Destitution is the worst homicide committed, and yet there is no punishment for the one who provokes or permits it. It describes the inhuman situation that commoners suffer from day to day, from strenuous and poorly paid jobs, to unfounded accusations made by employers to assault and fire them; it also specifies that women and children in the capital, for lack of sufficient salary, contribute to the work that men do, but receive half or less of it, despite doing the same time, just because it is them, in other words, because they are women and children....

A vein stood out on Jail's temple and he clenched his jaw. Fury was written all over his face. Four years on the border was enough to forget the horrors of the capital, eh, he thought. Unfortunately, he did not, he only felt alienated with the change of environment, where his subordinates learned to respect and coexist with the small peasant families or outlaws that roamed the area; time in which he rested, however, like all good things, had to culminate and return to his dismal reality as the nobleman he was. Stifled by irritation, he closed the book, but before putting it back in its place he spotted a moderately small hole in the shelf, from which he could make out the foot of some rustic stairs made of wood. He put the book away, lowered the lamp to the dusty floor and then pushed the shelf with difficulty until it revealed a door opening that reached his nose. Jail went from anger to surprise in a matter of minutes, which in the end ended up causing him amusement.

He picked up the candlestick again, which lit the path as he climbed. Admiral, you really continue to amaze me, he thought.

Cárcel decided to join the navy, even against his parents' wishes, in order to delay the wedding with his fiancée. Since he was a teenager, he expressed his dissatisfaction with the arranged marriage they had made when he was three years old, but no one paid any attention, nor did they agree to invalidate the arrangement. As time went by, she began to devise plans to delay the marriage so that her fiancée's father would look for a new suitor; everything worked: dislike in public gatherings, pretending to have contagious diseases or, as simple as it may seem, not to attend any invitation made to her. Everything went according to plan, until one evening, during dinner, Duke Henry, Carcel's father, announced the following:

-Your marriage to young Barrientos will take place on the last day of next month.

The authoritative tone he used silenced the murmurs of his wife and youngest son. Everyone was stupefied, especially Cárcel who barely took a piece of meat to his mouth. The blond was the exact copy of the duke, which caused a hypnotic allusion for the spectators to see them face each other without using their mouths. Their eyes challenged each other insistently. Fortunately, Duchess Inés intervened, convincing her husband to let Cárcel taste in peace, to which he gladly agreed. Meanwhile, the young man's breathing became more agitated with every second he was still there, so he left the meal half eaten and locked himself in his room.

The next few days he kept his mouth shut and spent most of the time either training with the shotgun or in his room. Occasionally he would skip meals, causing the duchess to become alarmed by his behavior. But Jail just needed time and understanding. Deep down he understood his parents' urgency to consummate the wedding; if they wished to rest they had to leave someone to manage the duties of the noble title, and this could only be obtained after settling down. Still, he found it repugnant the way they trampled on his feelings and boycotted everything planned. One morning, while he was shooting at a wooden monkey, he heard the servants say that an old friend of the duke's had arrived and, out of curiosity, he went to inspect who it was. In the living room the two were chatting quietly, while enjoying the strong coffee made by Margarita, the nanny. The guest was wearing the uniform of the royal infantry, the one that his father kept with so much affection, but it had different details, for example, in the fold of the neck he wore the symbol of a golden eagle and the hat, which rested on the small table, also had it and was protruding from the right side. Dazzled by the impeccable appearance, he stood there, waiting for the opportunity to say hello.

The pointer on the clock read ten o'clock in the morning and by the time the pair of adults said goodbye, it read six o'clock in the evening. Jail did not eat because of the wait; he feared that by doing so he would miss the opportunity. His goal was not a simple greeting, but to enlist, either in the navy, army or with him, in the royal infantry. She followed him out of the mansion until she caught up with him.

-Forgive this impertinent man, but..." He looked up, feigning despair through his eyes, "I need help, sir. Please help me.

His eyes collided with an icy expression. Semi-white drooping eyebrows, tight lips forming a line, hair held in a ponytail, and a slight sinking of the eyeballs. Despite being the same size, Jail felt intimidated. The feeling of regret flooded him and many possible scenarios exploded in his head, in addition to losing, to a great extent, hope. The gentleman asked the reason for the intrusion, to which the blond ended up coming clean. Contrary to what he imagined, he let out a weak laugh and once he recovered his calm, he introduced himself, his name was Fernando Torres, admiral of the royal infantry.

Cárcel's lips curved into a subtle smile. The memory of when they had first met transmitted enormous embarrassment to him. Without noticing, he reached almost the top of the stairs. In front of him was the dusty wall that, instead of white, looked grayish; thanks to the candlelight he noticed the small silver handle without a latch protruding from the ceiling. Sharpening his eyes even more, he realized that it was a tiny door that sought to go unnoticed. Curiosity increased by leaps and bounds, which ended with the handle being pulled and, surprisingly, he found a piece of thick dark wool with which carpets were made; without further delay, he continued up the rest of the steps, while he lifted the piece of carpet that was in the way, finding a scene that left him stupefied?

Alba slept peacefully on her side between the sheets. Her upper body remained wrapped; however, her legs were exposed. The lower ruffles of the nightgown lay rolled up, remaining between her hips and thighs, revealing part of her round buttocks. The delicate folds of her skin left his mouth dry. Although he kept his sanity over the natural desires that every living being had, this time he had to admit it: The beauty and innocence of this girl captivated him to an unimaginable depth.