The day after the ceremony, the Novales estate in Intramuros came alive. Servants rushed in and out of the kitchen, carrying trays heavy with food. The air was rich with the scent of adobo stewed in vinegar and garlic, lechon roasted until its skin was golden and crisp, and steaming pots of arroz caldo. Platters of pancit, lumpia, and fresh fruits from the provinces decorated the long dining tables.
Visitors filled the halls—criollo relatives, family friends, merchants tied to the Novales business, and a handful of Spanish officers who had served with Andres's absent father.
Andres was still in his bedroom, donning his freshly pressed uniform. The dark coat fit his frame perfectly now, his shoulders broad from years of training, his body was lean and toned, and his height was approximated five foot five. The sash of a lieutenant rested neatly across his chest, and the silver insignia gleamed on his collar.
He stood before the mirror briefly. His face, once boyish, had sharpened with age, strong jawline and sharp nose. His skin was tanned from countless hours under the sun, giving him a striking presence. His black hair was trimmed short, neat as expected of an officer.
With one final look, he made his way towards the door and welcomed the visitors politely.
Doña Isabella was entertaining one of the guests when she noticed him. At once, her face lit up. She swiftly excused herself, dashed across the room, and took Andres by the arm with the pride of a mother who wanted the world to see her son.
"Everyone," she said, her voice carrying over the chatter. "This is my son, Lieutenant Andres Novales, top of his class at the academy."
Heads turned at once. Conversations halted as eyes settled on Andres in his sharp uniform. A murmur rippled through the hall.
"My, how handsome he has grown," one of the criollo ladies whispered, fanning herself lightly.
"Truly, he carries the bearing of an officer," said an older merchant with a nod of approval.
"He has his father's presence," remarked a Spanish officer, though another added quietly, "and his mother's grace."
Compliments flowed easily. "So young, yet already a lieutenant." "Look at that discipline in his eyes." "Spain will be proud of this one."
Andres gave polite bows, answering each praise with a calm smile. Inside, he felt none of the excitement they expected of him. To him, this was simply a stage, a performance he had to play until the real work began.
But for Doña Isabella, this was her moment. Her hand tightened around her son's arm as she beamed at the crowd. "He is my pride," she declared warmly. "The future of our family."
Applause and nods followed. Some relatives approached to shake Andres's hand, others to slap his shoulder in congratulation. A few young women giggled from a corner, whispering behind their fans as they cast glances his way.
Then it was eating time. Andres grabbed a plate and let the servants fill it with steaming rice, a generous cut of lechon, golden lumpia, and a rich serving of adobo whose aroma alone made several guests' mouths water.
He sat at a corner table, away from the loud chatter, and took his first bite. The flavors exploded on his tongue. Savory, tangy, garlicky adobo that melted perfectly with the hot rice. The lumpia was crisp on the outside yet soft and savory inside. The lechon cracked with every bite, the juices dripping in his mouth.
Andres closed his eyes briefly. It tastes exactly the same.
The centuries had not dulled the essence of Filipino cooking. Even now, in 1814, the food carried the same taste he remembered from his past life. The same adobo that countless Filipinos ate through centuries, the same lechon roasted at fiestas, the same lumpia shared at family tables.
It was oddly comforting, grounding him between the life he had lost and the one he now lived.
But the nostalgia was fleeting. Andres straightened, returning to the present. Everyone seemed to be enjoying this feast. He looked out the window, changing the scenery.
Surely, the air is so fresh compared to 21st century Manila. He breathed in and exhaled in satisfaction. Then, something caught his eye. There was a lady about the same age as him, sitting under the tree while drawing something on a canvas board.
He tilted his head to the side. It was an odd sight. All their peers around the age were inside the house yet she was there alone.
Curious, he walked toward the garden.
"Señorita," Andres called politely.
The young lady looked up from her canvas, and for a moment, Andres's words caught in his throat. She was striking—fair skin, strawberry-blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight, braided neatly yet still falling freely down her back. Her eyes, a vivid shade of blue, seemed to capture the sky itself. She couldn't have been more than his age, perhaps a year younger.
Andres felt an unfamiliar pause. For someone who always measured his words carefully, silence was rare. He had seen beauty in his past life, but there was something disarming about her presence here, beneath the quiet shade, painting while the rest of the guests drowned in chatter and wine.
The young lady tilted her head slightly.
"Do you need something?"
She spoke in English, and her accent was unmistakably European.
Andres quickly regained his composure, offering a small bow as he replied in the same language.
"Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I simply found it unusual that you would choose this place rather than join the celebration inside."
She set her brush down and smiled faintly.
"I… didn't feel like staying inside. There are too many people, and I don't know any of them. I'm still new here, and sometimes it feels like I don't quite belong." Her eyes shifted back to the canvas for a moment before she added, a little shyly, "Painting helps. It makes me feel at ease."
Andres gave a small nod, understanding. "That makes sense. Crowds can be… overwhelming, especially when everyone else already knows each other." He paused, then offered a gentle smile. "I should introduce myself properly. Andres Novales."
The girl's expression shifted, her eyes widened slightly, then curved into a smile. "Ah, so it's you."
Andres raised a brow, curious. "You know me?"
She chuckled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"My parents mentioned you. The young lieutenant, top of his class at the academy. They spoke of you even before we came here. Not to mention. You were the reason why we were here."
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, impressed. "I didn't expect to meet you so soon."
Andres couldn't help but notice her voice. It was so soft and gentle to the ears. He wouldn't mind her reading a book and he wouldn't get bored.
"Oh…as for my name, I'm Sarah Whitmore."
As he had thought, she was a foreigner, a British one.
"That's a beautiful name for a fine lady," Andres said with sincerity.
Sarah's cheeks warmed slightly, though she hid it behind a polite smile. "You're far too kind, Lieutenant."
Andres shook his head lightly. "Titles aren't necessary here. Just Andres will do."
Her smile grew a little more genuine. "Then… Andres." She tested his name on her tongue as if weighing its sound, and for some reason, it made him feel more at ease than any of the praises he had received inside the hall.
There was a small silence, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves above them. Andres glanced at her canvas, tilting his head. "May I?"
Sarah blinked, her fingers tightening slightly around the brush. "O-Oh… um, if you wish," she said softly, almost as if embarrassed to show her work.
Andres stepped closer, careful not to cast too heavy a shadow over the canvas. The outlines of the Novales garden were already taking shape—delicate strokes capturing the roses, the old stone fountain, even the play of light between the leaves. It wasn't finished, but her hand clearly carried skill.
"You're talented," Andres remarked honestly. "The garden looks alive even without the colors filled in."
Her cheeks flushed at once. She lowered her gaze, brushing at the edge of her skirt as if to steady herself.
"Y-You're only saying that," she murmured. "It's nothing special… just something I do to pass the time."
But the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She was pleased, even if she couldn't bring herself to say it outright.
"In that case you are very talented. Drawing with such detail only to 'pass the time'—I can hardly believe it."
Sarah bit her lower lip, her brush fidgeting between her fingers. "You really think so?" she asked softly, almost as though she was afraid to believe him.
"I do," Andres replied without hesitation. "Most people see a garden and only notice the flowers. But you notice the way the light falls, the lines of the fountain, even the way the branches bend. That's not something just anyone can capture."
Her eyes flicked up to his, wide and startled at his sincerity, before darting quickly back to the canvas. A rosy color spread across her cheeks.
"You speak as if you know much about painting."
Andres gave a small chuckle. "Not at all. But I know when something—or someone—is remarkable."
Sarah's breath caught in her throat, and she turned her face slightly away, as though the breeze had suddenly become too much. She had never been spoken to so directly, so earnestly. Most who addressed her did so with polite courtesy, never with such simple conviction.
After a short pause, Andres leaned a little closer. "Sarah, I want to know more about you. May I sit next to you?"
Sarah's head snapped up, her blue eyes widening. "Y-You… want to know more about me?" she repeated, almost as if she couldn't believe he had asked so plainly.
"If you'll allow it."
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first. The request caught her completely off guard. She was used to being politely greeted, asked about the weather, or spoken to only through the filter of her parents. But this—this was different. Direct. Personal.
"I…" She glanced down at the empty space on the bench beside her, then quickly looked away again, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.
"It's… unusual," she admitted softly. "Most people don't ask me things like that."
Andres gave a faint smile, lowering his voice as though to reassure her. "Then perhaps they should."
Her heart gave a nervous flutter at his words. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks again, but after a small pause, she nodded—almost timidly, but enough to show she meant it.
"You… may sit," she said.
Andres lowered himself onto the bench beside her, not too close, but close enough that the scent of her faint perfume—something floral, light—reached him.
Sarah kept her gaze fixed stubbornly on the canvas, though her brush hadn't moved in several seconds. Her thoughts were a whirl, and she finally managed, in a soft murmur.
"So…what do you want to know about me?"