CHAPTER EIGHT :SECRETS BETWEEN SILKS AND SHADOWS

The late afternoon sun stretched golden fingers across the Montemayor mansion, filtering through the carved wooden lattice of the windows. Mira stood just outside the study room door, balancing a tray of tangerine juice and vanilla biscuits meant for Catalina's post-lesson refreshment. Inside, Catalina sat ramrod straight, nodding along as her tutor flipped through a thick history textbook.

Mira had heard this voice too many times, always from behind walls or half-open doors. Mr. Echeverría spoke clearly, every word deliberate. Mira leaned just slightly closer.

"And so the Treaty of Madrigal ended the dispute between the Vallejo and Salamanca dynasties," the tutor said, tapping the map on the board. "Now, Catalina, what do you think Queen Estela's real motive was in signing the treaty?"

Catalina tilted her head, smugness in her voice. "Power. She wanted to consolidate the eastern provinces under her control without another battle. Obvious."

Mr. Echeverría gave a dry chuckle. "Sharp as always. Excellent deduction."

Mira's fingers clenched slightly on the tray. Catalina's pride had grown since her recent exam results—thanks in part to the quiet guidance of her mother, Doña Isabela. Don Montemayor had praised Catalina extensively during dinner three nights ago, comparing her favorably to some of his business partners' children. Catalina, catching the admiration in his voice, had tossed a casual smile toward Mira, as if daring her to match that brilliance.

But Mira didn't compete. She only listened.

Every day after Catalina's lessons, she swept the hallway with unnecessary care, only so she could catch fragments of the lessons. And when Catalina threw away old notes or books into the storeroom trash, Mira retrieved them carefully, flattening torn pages and piecing together knowledge like a secret tapestry.

Still, what stung more was the memory of Don Montemayor's stern voice from days ago—"…stop it, Isabela. You don't owe that girl anything. She's the dead maid's child. Focus on your daughter."

Mira had overheard it from the stairwell. She hadn't meant to. But it had cracked something inside her.

—

Later that week, while the household buzzed with weekend preparation, Mira quietly cleaned the main sitting room when Doña Isabela entered, looking for her embroidery scissors.

Mira stood, clutching a pillow she had been fluffing. "Señora, shall I help you look?"

Doña Isabela paused, observing the girl. Her voice remained gentle. "No, thank you, Mira. I believe they might be in the sewing basket."

As she turned to leave, her eyes fell on the edge of Mira's notebook—half hidden behind a curtain. "What's that?"

Mira stepped protectively forward. "It's nothing, señora."

Doña Isabela tilted her head. "Show me."

Reluctantly, Mira handed it over. The notebook was filled with precise handwriting, summaries of lessons she had only ever heard but never seen, history dates, literature quotes, and mathematical formulas scribbled in pencil.

For a moment, Doña Isabela didn't speak. Then she smiled softly. "You've been learning."

Mira nodded, unable to read her expression. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disobey, I just—"

"No. Don't apologize." She flipped through the pages. "These are well-written. You remembered all this just by listening?"

"Yes, señora."

"Then perhaps… perhaps some minds do not need to see the sun directly to understand its warmth." Her voice was distant, admiring.

Before Mira could respond, Catalina entered the room, fresh from her swimming lesson, a towel slung over her shoulder.

"Mom!" she said, then paused. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her mother holding Mira's notebook. "What's going on?"

Doña Isabela snapped the book shut calmly. "Nothing important."

"Is that mine?" Catalina walked closer.

"No. It's Mira's."

Mira reached for it, but Catalina's hand moved faster, snatching the notebook.

She flipped through it, eyebrows raising. "You're copying my lessons?"

Mira flushed. "No… I just listen sometimes."

Catalina's lips curled. "You're playing pretend again. You think because you can scribble a few notes, you belong with real students?"

"Catalina," her mother warned gently.

Catalina ignored her, tossing the notebook onto the table. "Don't touch my books again."

Mira picked up the notebook silently and left.

—

That evening, Don Montemayor returned from a business trip with gifts for Catalina: a new dress from La Novedad boutique and a gilded pen imported from France. Over dinner, he toasted Catalina's upcoming mock exams.

"To brilliance," he said, raising his glass. "To my shining daughter."

Catalina beamed. Mira cleared the plates silently.

Later that night, Catalina passed Mira in the hallway and muttered under her breath, "Even father sees who matters."

Mira said nothing, retreating to the storeroom as always.

But inside, a resolve had begun to rise.

—

One week later, a small school competition was announced. Students were invited to submit essays for a regional essay showcase. The topic was Leadership in History and What It Teaches Us Today.

Mira found the discarded flyer under Catalina's bed while cleaning. Her heart skipped.

That night, she took out a blank notebook and began to write.

Every word was a challenge.

She had no official entry form. No teacher to sponsor her. But she had words. And she had learned the value of silent effort.

In the days that followed, she continued to listen to Mr. Echeverría's tutoring sessions from behind doors, collecting facts and shaping arguments in her notebook.

When she found a pen Catalina had carelessly dropped in the courtyard, she used it like a sword—her words carving truth from silence.

—

Doña Isabela watched all this quietly. She didn't stop her.

One afternoon, as Catalina lay napping in her music room and Mira dusted the library, Doña Isabela entered and handed her a thick envelope.

"This is the address for the essay committee," she said softly. "And an extra stamp."

Mira froze. "Señora?"

"I can't stop my husband from his opinions. But I'm allowed to post letters."

Mira took the envelope with trembling fingers.

"Thank you."

Doña Isabela only nodded and left.

—

Weeks passed. The essay submission went out. Mira said nothing to anyone.

Catalina continued to preen, her nose high in the air. Her father praised her endlessly, while Mira stayed in the background, sweeping, serving, and learning.

Until one Thursday morning when the mail arrived with a thin, official envelope addressed to Mira Alvarez, c/o Montemayor Residence.

Catalina spotted it first, confused. "Who sends you mail?"

She snatched it, but Mira walked forward and calmly took it from her fingers.

Opening it, she read the contents slowly. Her hands trembled.

She had been shortlisted.

Among five finalists across the province.

Catalina snorted. "What is that? A scam?"

Mira folded the letter carefully. "It's real."

She turned and left for the storeroom, her face unreadable, but her heart burning.

Behind her, Catalina stood frozen, speechless for once.

—

Later that evening, Catalina cornered her mother. "You helped her, didn't you?"

Doña Isabela looked up from her lacework. "I posted her letter."

"That's all?"

"That was enough."

Catalina stomped out.

Don Montemayor, when he heard of the letter, dismissed it. "Let her enjoy her moment. It's probably a fluke."

But Mira knew it wasn't.

And she wasn't done.