While Francisco was lost in his blueprints, a servant rushed into the estate. He jumped off his horse without stopping, leaving chaos for the other servants to clean up.
"Young master!" the servant shouted, running through the hall and knocking on Francisco's door in a frantic rhythm.
Francisco, annoyed by the interruption, opened the door. But when he saw which servant it was, his irritation faded—he knew something serious had happened.
"Young master, there are dead people—!" the servant blurted out, words tumbling too fast to make sense.
"Wait, wait. Take a breath first." Francisco grabbed a jug, poured a glass of water, and handed it to him. "Here, drink this, then talk."
The servant gulped the water, breathed deep, and finally explained: how they had followed the man, how three suspicious figures appeared, how all four ended up dead—and how one had somehow survived.
"There is a survivor. He's the one who killed the others."
"What? Let's go, we need to know what happened." Francisco wasted no time. He called five more servants and told Grandma María to prepare for the wounded.
Mounting their horses, Francisco and the servant rode fast to the hill. There, they found the other servant pressing gauze against a wound.
"How is he?" Francisco asked.
"Young master," the servant said, trying to stand and salute.
"Stop. Focus on the wounded."
"He's badly injured. The sword pierced through his torso. Lucky for him, it missed the organs. He can survive, but he lost much blood. Maybe Grandma María can save him."
"Wait—I know this man." Francisco knelt, cleaned the man's face with his handkerchief, and narrowed his eyes. "Yes. He's the innkeeper who gave me the location and password to the slave house. But why is he here like this? And these bodies…"
He searched the corpses' pockets—only coins. But when he saw their faces, recognition struck.
"This one—I've seen him. A servant of the Gómez de Castro boy. Why did it end like this?" Francisco pulled the folded letter from his pocket. His expression hardened. "So that's it. He was a liberal spy here in Antioquía. He must've written this letter after overhearing the priest and that boy, then tried to slip away to deliver it. Maybe his silence raised suspicion… or maybe his men were waiting outside, saw him running, and followed to earn merit. What they didn't expect was for Óscar, the innkeeper, to kill them all, bringing us to this scene."
He stood. "Take him back to the estate. Let's hope Grandma María can save him. As for the dead—bury them. If they're found, the Gómez de Castro family might learn something or become cautious. Better if they disappear. Servants don't leave much trace; in time, they'll be forgotten."
With the extra hands, carrying Óscar was easy. Two others buried the corpses. By the time they returned, Grandma María was already tending to the wounded. Francisco, satisfied, returned to his blueprints.
Building an alembic wasn't simple. A forge was needed, as well as rare materials. Luckily, his father's ties with the Crown often brought unusual resources, and most of what the blacksmiths required was already in the warehouse. The missing pieces he ordered the servants to buy in town. With that arranged, Francisco allowed himself time with his sister and his books—until Grandma María summoned him. Óscar was waking.
Francisco entered a room heavy with the pungent smell of herbs.
"Young master, look—his hands are moving. He's waking," said a servant.
Óscar's eyes snapped open. He sat up suddenly with surprising force, as if he'd merely been asleep. But within seconds, he collapsed back down—the wound too deep for his body to sustain such effort.
Grandma María stormed in, face stern. "Why in God's name did you stand up? Do you want to die faster?" She pointed at the servants. "You two—help him back to bed! And you—don't you dare get up again. If not for the young master's mercy, you'd already be rotting in another world!"
The servants hurried to lift Óscar and lay him down. In this house, Grandma María's authority surpassed even that of Carlos or Isabella. Her knowledge had saved the family countless times; she was their pillar.
"Now I'll need to rebandage his wound again. Sigh…" she muttered, preparing clean gauze.
"Ugh, could you be a little gentler?" Óscar winced under her firm hands.
"Young man, if you didn't want pain, you shouldn't have stood up. Now you'll endure it like a man while I fix the mess you made. You lost plenty of blood, and that wound was closing—until you tore it open again. Be grateful. If it weren't for the young master, I'd have thrown you out of this house."
"Sorry," Óscar murmured, ashamed. "I thought I was dead, and then I woke up in a strange house… my reaction was pure fear."
"I know," Grandma María softened slightly. "The young master told me he found you on that hill, alone and wounded. Are you a merchant?" she asked, trying to distract him from the pain.
"This… yes, I'm a merchant. I ran into bandits on the road to Antioquía." Óscar forced a smile, catching Francisco's warning glance—the kind that said, I know the truth, but you'd better keep quiet.
"Bandits," Grandma María scoffed. "Nothing but troublemakers. Well, you're cleaned and wrapped now. Rest." With brisk efficiency, she finished her work and stepped out to wash the bloodied gauze, leaving Francisco and Óscar alone.
Óscar broke the silence. "So—how much do you know?"
"Not much. Only some codes. But the part about a conspiracy in the Church—that stood out. I don't get it: why encrypt the message, then leave something so obvious in plain text? Doesn't that scream suspicious behavior?" Francisco frowned.
"Maybe. But it caught your attention, didn't it? You didn't ignore it—you even sent men to find me." Óscar smirked.
"That's true. Still, I only figured things out by speculation." Francisco explained his reasoning, his deductions leaving Óscar impressed.
"You're sharp. But tell me—knowing this was a liberal's letter, why not hand me over to the guards? A captured rebel might've earned your father favor in Bogotá." Óscar's tone tested him.
"You don't need to test me," Francisco answered seriously. "It's true my father is a royalist. But that doesn't mean we are. I don't care for the Crown, the Church, or the liberals. I care only about my family."
Óscar chuckled. "Ironic. A royalist father gave birth to a liberal son." He leaned back, still smiling faintly. "Well, it's a complicated story. Sit. I'll explain it to you."