* * *
Doña Lambra woke to the brightness of the tent with a bitter taste in her mouth and dried tears crusting her eyes. She rolled over and saw a figure moving about in silence.
“Justa?” she croaked.
Ruy Blásquez moved next to the bedstead, nearly thrusting his bandaged nose in her face. “It is I, my dear wife.”“Bring Justa.”
* * *
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