There was no name in the notebook. The fact was surprising in itself, because this wasn't the cheap kind of cardboard notebook you bought at Walmart to write vocabulary lists into; no, this one was of brown leather, thick and bound with detailed arabesques on the side and pages' blades that seemed to have been dipped into molten gold. It must have had cost a little fortune, and was probably the kind of personal diary where people hid poems, secrets or photographs of things that really mattered. It was the kind of notebook one was careful never to leave without, and made sure to leave a note at the beginning to make sure it would always find its way back to them, with a name, perhaps a phone number and instructions starting with "if lost, please return..." in a pretty calligraphy. This one's front page, however, appeared desperately empty, staring back at her in mocking nakedness. She found, however, a dried purple violet that seemed to serve a second life as a makeshift bookmark, and opened it curiously. Apparently, the owner of the book liked to write in it, in a decipherable yet rather nervous skinny trait, and this page, filled up to the bottom corner with tiny dark blue characters, was the last one the owner had covered. Squinting, she realized that they had left it in the middle of a word, halfway through a sentence. Isabel wondered what could have caused them to leave the teashop so abruptly, leaving their possession behind.

"Pray tell", she called as Adrián placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "Did you happen to see who was sitting here before me?" The waiter blinked twice before letting a Cheshire grin split his features and sitting criss-cross applesauce in the booth, never mind that he was in the middle of his shift. This was the sort of unprofessional behaviour, more than the quality of their brew, that earned the Nube de Leche its disastrous reviews and crumbling reputation. Most of the time, this played in Isabel's favour, the lack of clientele making a quiet haven for her to escape the exuberant, bubbling and colourful labyrinth of the city. Other times, however, it only served to spur her friend on as he projected his undivided focus on her.

"There was a young woman, yes, I remember, red haired and a freckled mess. She ordered a chai, left halfway through in a hurry though. Why? Are we courting?"

She pursed her lips and counted to ten to stop herself from throwing her drink in his face.

"We", she glared, "are not courting anyone. It appears that your terrible customer service has scared off another client so bad that she ran away and forgot her notebook inside, and I figured she might want it back."

Adrián let out an offended gasp, before leaning upon the table to take a look at the book.

"I see", he clicked his tongue, "I understand why you think she'd miss it. I have never seen her before though, but maybe I could ask the rest of the staff."

"That's alright, thank you. It's just a shame that I couldn't catch a name though, I'd have liked to find her."

He tilted his head to the side, hazel eyes glistening with the mischievous glint she had come to apprehend.

"I mean, he drawled, Grenade isn't that big of a city."

"She could be a tourist. From your description, she didn't exactly fit the local description after all."

"Tourists don't frequent the Nube, honey. Besides, she had the accent alright when she ordered."

She glared at the nickname, but fished a pen from a handbag and started doodling a map of the Albaicín on a napkin, stabbing a point through the fabric where the tea shop was supposed to be.

"Alright, you ask your colleagues if anyone caught a name, I'll ask around the block if someone has seen her."

"Wait! What about the book?"

"I'm not going to read what could be her diary without her consent."

"But it could hold clues! If it were you, wouldn't you wish someone would do their best to bring it back to you? Besides", he whispered slyly, "Aren't you curious?"

She threw him an unimpressed glare and left without another word, rolling her eyes when he marvelled loudly at her tip.

On her behalf, it ought to be noted that Isabel put up a valiant front, and that her morals didn't go down without a fight. At soon as she came home, feet aching from having wandered around the hill in the search of a name, she lit up a candle, poured herself a cup and drew herself a bath. But no matter the caress of foaming water across her battered skin, nor the scent of cardamom floating away from the flame nor the warmth of black tea could distract her mind from the curiosity that stretched across her mind like a black hole, devouring every other thought. She let herself slip slowly under the surface, held her breath as the bath swallowed her whole, and realized with tired desperation how lonely she felt. She rose from the bathtub, water dripping from her collarbones along the valleys of her skin, and wished away the silence with a sigh.

The first entry, scribbled down in frantic dark blue cursive, was smudged at places with what looked like dry teardrops and ink stains, and she had to squint hard to understand the words. "Love lies bleeding", read the paragraph in lieu of an introduction; no date, no place, only what she supposed stood for the title of the text that followed. "It's over. He's said it like an apology, like a lover excusing his extinguished flame and untying me from chains I'd never asked to be freed of. He's said it like it wasn't my life, my breathe he'd sucked away from me, like those bones I couldn't stand on still had blood and skin wrapped around them, like every sigh I could give would ever be anything but ribbons of smoke in the mindless sky -so naked, so naked, I can't stand how blue it is anymore. Worst perhaps, he's said it like it was his fault, and told me that I shouldn't blame myself as he showed me the ashes of a hope I had stomped on myself and I could have stabbed him for that, if hadn't been trying so hard to remember how to breathe -I still don't know how. When has the mountain turned into a volcano? All I can taste is ash, all I feel is the dirt of this red desert rock wrapping around my ankles like handcuffs on a radiator, and the never-ending warmth of a summer I have never hated so much. Who turned the tea into venom, and why is the water boiling down my throat? Why is the sun so bright, shimmering like a golden hallucination and dripping into honey and glue that slows my pace but won't mend any of this broken porcelain? Where can I find water to wipe away this sky that sticks to my skin? I'll have to cut my hair if the honey isn't washed. The sea, hiding behind these unending walls of red stone, has never felt so far. I'll drive to the sea, and I'll throw myself into its teary embrace, if I only I can survive this summer. At least the warmth cannot taste forever, and if I can remember how to be cold, maybe this never-ending absence they call infinity will leave my tongue as a never forgotten, bitter taste. I hope, against all desperation and past the end of everything that is worth hoping for, that I can survive this summer."

Isabel let go of a breath she hadn't noticed she'd been holding hostage, and blink away an uncomfortable burn in her eyes. While it seemed to confirm her stranger was still in town for the rest of the summer -which both reassured her and cleared how little she had left to fulfil her mission- she hadn't understood most of it, who this mysterious "he" was (not a lover, but just like one), why she sounded so heartbroken, and what had been lost forever. She shrugged, scribbled down the rare hints she had gathered on a piece of paper and moved on to the next entry.

"Marigold", it read, and there she frowned and did a double take, before flipping through the pages to check every entry; and sure enough, each was titled after a flower. She ran to her bookcase and retrieved her heavy guide to flower language, along with a map of Grenade. Love lies bleeding symbolized hopelessness, which made sense in retrospective, while marigolds represented pain and grief. What was there to grieve, she wondered, feeling melancholic curiosity fill the hole in her chest to the brim. She marked every flower shop and library in town with little dots, then tucked herself in bed with the two books, and resumed her study. Wrapped in blankets with the notebook on her lap, covered in the light of the candle, she felt less alone than in a long time, and fell asleep with the diary pressed against her chest.

In every library book, even with today's means of numeric registration, there is a borrower's card, often yellowed and ripped at the edges by decades of foreign touches and use, in which every reader eager to take it home has to scribbled down their name and the date of borrowing. Most people tend to ignore those annoying little pieces of paper once their name is added to the list, using them as a bookmark at best. Isabel herself, although she appreciated the nostalgic whispers of longing those papers exuded, had never paid them any mind beyond a sense of muted attachment, like a background noise.

Now, though, she couldn't feel more grateful for their existence, as they had become a permanent part of her routine, and the key to her research. It had been a week since she had found the diary in the tea shop, and every morning since then she'd taken her mocha latte and a notebook of hers to one of the little dots on her map and spent the day there, looking up every encyclopaedia she could possibly find about flowers, flower language or plants and copying every name she found in the library cards. Thankfully, it was the summer holidays, and she didn't feel like modifying her classes this year, so she didn't have to worry about such mundane worries like work. Besides, her profession certainly protected her from the questions curious glances sometimes threw at her when they pierced through her recluse corner of the room, wondering what she was doing with so many heavy books; her name was known among the staff, after all, and they all knew to leave the literature researchers alone when they isolated themselves, and probably assumed she was preparing her next doctorate thesis about plant symbolism in British post-modernism novels or something alike. She didn't really cared what they thought, to be fair, as long as they left her alone in the quiet; besides, it was true that the symbolism she'd been discovering more and more of had awoken her passion for coded messages and secrecy.

This afternoon, however, she didn't have the luxury of losing herself among dusty pages until closing times, and often flicked glances at the engraved, golden pocket watch she had inherited from her grandfather. Still, in spite of her best efforts, she managed to somehow lose track of time, and found herself running and tripping on her heels through the paving of the medieval centre with belated desperation as a crimson sun took over the exhausted sky.

Waiting for her at one of the tiny tables in the park, Mercedes had busied herself by recreating the Grenade battle scene with the figurines on the chessboard. She arched an eyebrow upon noticing her, and pointed an accusatory jester at her.

"Even by your standards, you're ridiculously late."

"You can have the whites."

She grimaced. "And I want an explanation."

"As for what? I got lost in the books."

"Well for starters, you have that same feverish look in your eyes when you were writing your doctorate and you stayed for hours at night researching the symbolism of jacket buttons, and it's been years since you've been passionate about anything, of course I'm curious. So, tell me, what managed to catch the ever-apathetic Isabel Cruz' attention?"

She sighed and ate her friend's knight.

"You get three guesses."

"Alright, I'll bite. Is it a book you've read?"

A pause. A shrug. She paralysed a tower, chewed the inside of her cheek, and nodded.

"Did it end wrong?"

"It hasn't ended."

"So, what's the problem? Is it going to end? Did you find an Unfinished Symphony? Are you driving yourself crazy trying to gather the pages of Aristotle's Comedy? Is the author dead?"

"Lord, I hope not."

"So, who wrote it?"

"I don't know. A stranger; a woman. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

A happy glint lit up warm brown eyes as her opponent fell into the trap of eating the black queen with the white one, and Isabel found herself recounting the past week's events in a tired monotone.

"So, what if she hasn't borrowed her guide in a library?"

"Then I'll do bookshops, I'm sure I can get them to let me take a look at their record books. Once my list is complete, though, I'll tour the flower-shops of the city; surely someone who expresses themselves with flowers must be a frequent customer of those."

"And what if you fail? What if you never manage to find her before the end of summer?"

"Then I'll open a Chardonnay, spend an evening reading Macbeth and that will be it."

"Don't say it! You said it. Jesus, now we're doomed. You did it, you've brought despair and an eternity of suffering on yourself and your little pipe-dream, congratulations."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't need a word to condemn myself to a never-ending pain and she doesn't seem to be doing so bad herself; we'll be lucky if we even survive the season. I'm going to need my queen back. Pay better attention; I've just eaten yours, by the way."

Mercedes let out a long string of barely muffled curses that attracted the offended looks of the passers-by, but neither their gasps nor her inexorable defeat distracted her for long.

"What do you mean?" Her brows furrowed in thinly-veiled worry, and she had to fight the reflex to roll her eyes at the unwelcome empathy.

"I mean", she drawled, purposefully misunderstanding the question, "that she writes like the word was set on fire two days ago, and she's the only survivor. She's grieving something she can never earn back, and she doesn't know what to do with the void in her ribcage. That's what she wrote, at least."

"Perhaps she's lost a loved one."

"Doubtful. Under 'dried white rose' -that's sorrow- she wrote 'If only there was a victim, an assassin, a witness; if only there was blood to wash, even of my own hands, for I feel like somebody died and they were my lover and nobody told me and they buried them without me, and now I drag my useless feet upon miles of desert in the vain hope to find a crux, because there is no tomb, there is no corpse, and they buried me from myself.'"

If Mercedes thought it strange that she'd known the sentence by heart, she didn't say. She looked like she wanted to say something, eyes swallowing shadows as they glazed upon her bitten nails and coffee-stained sleeves and laced black wristbands, but then she gulped, throat bobbing like you down an unpleasant poison, and she tilted her head to the side.

"You're worried."

"About what? I don't even know her."

"Dishonesty doesn't suit you, you know I know you better than this by now."

"Then why do I keep winning?"

Her opponent's eyes shone with something akin to disappointment as she let out a long suffering sigh, scrunched her nose closer to her eyes and bit her dried chapped lip.

"Just for once, I wish you'd meet somebody stronger than you."

"That's because you're a sore loser."

"No, it's really not. Have you been smoking, Isabel? You smell like smoke. I thought you said you'd quit."

Isabel thought of ribbons of grey sighs curling on themselves and vanishing at the first black breath of the night's wind. She thought of trembling fingers holding onto a piece of paper, hidden in the bathroom stall of a bar even though there was nothing to hide from anymore, fascinated by the orange circle of fire that brought neither light nor warmth as she chain-smoked yet another pack of missed Lucky Strikes. She thought that dried white roses meant sorrow, and eglantine roses a wound that had yet to be filled, and she thought of gaping holes in the chest and an aching skin sticking to the bone and a lost notebook that ended with a bleeding, mutilated word, and she snarled in anger as her fingers wrapped tightly around the jester.

"Checkmate", she spit, and stood up to leave with the dry fire of her coldest glare. Despite her best effort however, Mercedes didn't carry the expression of a kicked puppy, quite the opposite. Her face, cheeks sunken and eyes open wide with dilated pupils spreading like burnt chocolate, reminded her of that time they had ran over a dog on the road while driving back from the university one night, and the woman had taken a stone to the head of the animal to end its slow agony. She gave her a once-over, as though imprinting her image in her memory the best she could, shook her head dejectedly, and left. The night had fallen while they played, and suddenly she didn't know what to do with this darkness sticking to her hands. She wondered, distantly, whether Mercedes would be back next Saturday, and then she drew a pack of cigarettes of her coat pocket and wondered whatever she was supposed to do, now. The silence held no answers.

Isabel glared impatiently as the florist's eyes widened, first in surprise, then in recognition and finally in relieved joy. His grin withered a little under her stare and he toyed with the green carnation tucked in his shirt pocket in an anticlimactic, shy gesture contrasting with his wide, tall and muscled build. She raised a brow and clicked her tongue; he busied himself with a buttercups, celandine and sunflowers arrangement.

"So? Do you know any of those names?"

He hummed.

"Who's asking?"

"I found a prized possession of hers that she must have lost. I'm trying to return it to her, simple as that. I've narrowed the list of possible names to those; so, which is it." She hadn't spoken it as a question but rather a command in hope to earn a glare that she could decipher; but he didn't seem to take offence, caressing the leaves of his flowers as if soothing a wild animal.

"I'm sorry, I don't know her name."

She massaged her temples.

"For some reason, I find that hard to believe. It's clear you recognize her; now tell me, what's her name."

He finally turned around, face distorted in some sort of wide embarrassedly wrinkled grin.

"No, you misunderstood me. She never told me her name, but I do believe I know who you're speaking of. Young woman, dark red-head, frail, freckles everywhere and a frighteningly extensive knowledge of plant symbolism? Yeah, that's Bee."

"A bee?"

"I don't have that many regulars and well, she wasn't exactly easily forgettable, was she? Do you want a lavender violet for the road? You can gift it to her when you meet her again, it's for free."

"Why do you call her that? And what do you mean, was? What happened?"

He sighed, and his smile slipped as he took a seat on the counter among scattered petals. Muddy troubled eyes wandered around the shop and his shoulders dropped; she could almost see the tired sigh dragging out of his lips.

"I call her Bee because she has a bee tattoo on her wrist, so after she started coming in here more often and became -well, I thought we were friends, or a tentative of it anyway-this was the nickname I gave her. I never did dare to ask for her name, if I'm being honest; I thought if she wanted to say it, she would, and I didn't want to make her uncomfortable; now I wish I had. As for your other questions, I have no clue. Little more than a month ago, she stopped coming abruptly, and I haven't seen her since. To be honest, until you came and said you had met her two weeks ago, I thought she was dead."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, she looked sick, and it had gotten worse lately. Perhaps she has just finally started to take care of herself though; it always worried me that she'd exercise in her state. It's nice, I figure, if she's taking care of herself."

"Exercising?"

"Oh yes, she always came here around three in the afternoon in work-out clothes, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Does that help you?"

"It's definitely a start; perhaps even the best lead I've found this week. Uh", she swallowed dry. "Eh, uh, thank you."

"Wait!" He called behind her as she was getting to the door. She stilled, but didn't around, hand wrapping around the handle.

"Hmm?"

"Whatever you plan with her, please don't hurt her. I won't pretend I understand what you want of her, but she doesn't deserve it, especially not now. I really care for her, you know."

She nodded and walked back into the store until they stood face to face, eyes wide open gazing directly into his.

"It's like I said", she spoke slowly. "I'm only trying to bring back something that has been lost."

He blinked, but held her gaze, and suddenly grabbed her wrist. She flinched and recoiled at the sudden, unwelcome touch, but relaxed slightly as he slipped something in her hand, instinctively curling her fingers around it.

"Take this with you, then. Careful, it's fragile."

"Queen Anne's Lace", she observed. "Why?"

"Just in case", he shrugged. "Think about it. Anyway, maybe I'll see you around then?"

"Yes", she whispered, softly amazed. "Perhaps you will."

As she walked out of the store, the overwhelming heat of the blue Andalusian sky swallowing her whole, she called Mercedes. The phone rang for a while, before sending her to an automatic voicemail. She left no message.

Bee was doing better.

Well, not the real Bee, since she had no way of knowing how she might feel, but the past version of her who wrote the pages Isabel was currently reading was certainly regaining interest in the world around her. Slowly, cemetery flowers watered in grief let way to fragile, delicate plants of hope and early morning piercing through the snow. Shakespearian monologues that spoke of death and lamentation turned into nostalgic, bitter yet eager admiration of the sun, the birds, the mountains, with a wonder that reminisced of a small child, as if she were discovering the world through a window.

She told Adrián this, through disgruntled hums and sharp, rough-edged words, as she sipped her black coffee and he built swan lake with the paper napkins.

"So what's your course of action? Come on captain, talk me to the plan."

"She came to the flower-shop after exercising every day, so she had to have a membership at a gym or studio in walking distance. I'll simply ask around until someone recognizes her description; it's not like she's making it hard for us to track her down, after all."

He grimaced.

"Could not phrase it like that? You sound like a predator out for a hunt."

She shrugged.

"Anyway", he dragged out a bit too loud, "What are you planning on doing? Once you've caught her."

She blinked.

"Right. The diary. Of course. But I mean, once you've returned it?"

She felt the corner of her lip twitching into a scowl, but quickly schooled her features into impassivity once again.

"Why would I want to do anything specific once I have returned it?"

His shoulder dropped, and he busied himself recreating the final battle between the prince and the evil sorcerer. Something flashed through his eyes. For a second, honey-gold melted into a darker, burnt coffee shade, and he reminded him so much of Mercedes she had to look away as an uncomfortable feeling twisted her guts.

"Adrián", she called, and couldn't tell if she had meant for her voice to sound so cold and commanding. She decided she did, as if intent could be determined in hindsight, and took a long gulp of her drink to gather up her thoughts.

"Will you take care of it for me?"

He tilted his head to the side, frowning in confusion. She placed the freshly potted Queen Anne's lace on the table among the paper swans, and he opened his mouth in pleased surprise.

"Did the florist gentleman gift you this?"

She nodded, and his grin turned wide and dimpled, a mess of sharp-like too white teeth contrasting with the brown tint of his skin, burnt by the scalding old black sun.

"Are you being courted, Isabel?"

The thought was so absurd, and so unexpected, that she had to tip her head back and laugh at that, a harsh and breathy laugh roughed by years of misuse, but sincere nonetheless. She had surprised even herself with it, taking in the weight that felt like he had just lifted off her chest. Adrián, on the other hand, looked like somebody had gifted him Europe on a white pure bull, lips parted in awe and batting his eyelashes as if the vision in front of him would suddenly disappear.

She flicked a paper swan down, effectively bringing him back to reality with a startled gasp.

"I can assure you I'm not being courted, wishful thinker. However, you should visit the flower-shop sometime soon, you might enjoy it. Besides, the Nube sure could use the decoration and perfume." She paused, and swallowed dry. "Will you take care of it?"

"Why?"

She shrugged, but he levelled her with an unimpressed glare, and she rolled her eyes.

"We both know I wouldn't know how to take care of a plant."

"You have cats."

"I have parasites who like to take advantage of their famished underweight bodies to come meowing at my window when they're dead on their feet, that's not the same. I'm a terrible excuse of a human being, Adrián, let's not lie to ourselves. So here, I'm trusting you to take care of it. I don't want it to die."

He gulped, nodded, and they both fell in a comfortable silence as she finished her drink.

"I'll see you tomorrow", she called, like an after-thought on the threshold.

"Thank you", he breathed, and she blinked at him.

"For what?"

He smiled. She nodded. The copper bell rang as she left the tea shop.

Bee, it was to be noted, was not a particularly good artist; her handwriting was messy and her fiery lines never straight, always trembling and hesitating and she sometimes rest her hand on a dot or the corner of the letter for too long, spilling drops of ink or digging little holes in the paper like she wanted to stab the words out of herself and nail them into the pages. She seemed to be aware of this, too, as she barely drew in the notebook, sometimes scribbling the silhouette of a flower in the corner of a page, with tiny arrows, as if not to forget what they looked like.

For this reason, and because she had long before given up on any clear indication of where the author could be found and had taken it upon herself to follow bread crumbs back home, the map took her by surprise.

Of course, because of course Bee wouldn't have done things the easy way, there was no indication whatsoever, just the messy outlines of crossroads and cut-throat alleyways twisted one inside another, dots that could have been fountains or statues or orange trees and words scattered all around it in a foreign language -she thought it might be German, or French, or Dutch- that didn't sound like street-names at all. As soon as she'd found the map, she'd taken out her freshly bought, hardback Atlas of Grenade that she wouldn't admit she had bought to look for Bee, and sat on her window ledge, highlighter in hand, to try and find a corner of the town that could match the pattern.

Thankfully, there were few sweeter nights than the ones drenched in the summer heatwave of Andalusia, still dripping from the sun like every building had drank from it until saturation, and the fresh breeze floating from the mountains afar carried the soft scent of oranges. There was a story about this, she remembered idly, a Cuento de la Alhambra that Mari-Cruz used to tell her every night at the foster home. A princess was taken from her faraway country to marry the king, and brought to live in the sumptuous Alhambra looming over the city. But as rich and as madly in love as her husband, and no matter how many jewels, exquisite dishes or silky dresses he covered her in, he couldn't manage to wrench her out of the grasp of the melancholy she found herself trapped in. She spent her nights crying, pale foreign beauty fluttering, and all day she sat on the window pain, gaze wandering aimlessly at the city, as if looking for a ghost she knew wouldn't be there. Finally, after the desperate king begged her to tell him how he could appease her misery, she smiled sadly and told him that it was in vain, that she missed the blinding sun flooding like a hundred of diamonds on the purest blanket of silk the snow laid under her window, in her country far away. In the face of his helplessness, the king lost his sanity. He spent nights and days alone, caught up in his bedroom and refusing to meet anybody, to write to anybody, to listen. Then, one day, he ordered that they cut all the trees in the royal gardens, and then all around the city, and the court obeyed, frightened that their sovereign had lost all sense, and stripped Grenade of every tree. Then, he ordered mysterious plants from far away and had them planted everywhere. That spring, when his queen stood up from the bed and walked to the window, she was dazzled to find a patch of snow at its spring. She left her tower and ran to the gardens, where everything the king had planted had bloomed into blossoming orange trees, and the flower petals floating in the breeze coloured the city white like the purest snow. In a garden, she found the king, who smiled and said "There is nothing in the world my love cannot give you", he simply said. As a child, Isabel had always loved this legend; perhaps it was because of this hope she had, as she bore the name of a queen, that a king would someday reclaim her and take her to a country far away where she'd be drenched in a love so great it would bring the snow to her feet. Perhaps it was the memory of Mari-Cruz, a warm smile gracing her lips as she tugged hair strands away from her face and tucked her in the sheets as she repeated the story, again and again, every night until she fell asleep.

Today, she wondered what the Alhambra palace looked like in the moonlight. It would be closed, of course, but she was nothing if not resourceful, and she knew how to slip into the breeches of any shadow in her path. Drunk on dreams and moonlight, the diary since long forgotten on the window ledge, she moved without thinking. She packed nothing, only taking her climbing shoes and old Polaroid, and ran up the mountainside all the way to the castle, steps echoing in the emptiness of the night. Time had stopped; she was endless, everywhere, and nothing all the same; she was, she was, she was.

One ought to marvel at how extraordinarily easy it is to illegally enter what Grenade had sacred the most beautiful of all Arabic palaces in broad moonlight. She had scaled the fortress' wall with practiced ease, draped in shadows cast by the branches of a nearby tree, and released her breath in a relieved sigh. Nobody was around, neither in nor out, as if the castle itself had fallen asleep, and the white glow of the moon reflected against the clear walls and intricated arabesques with a surrealistic aura.

The fountains' song echoed on the stone and tampered the sound of her footsteps, clear and crystallin like a woman's laugh in its obnoxious display of luxury, wasted tears washing down the flank of the desert. She slid between skinny columns and into a patio drenched in silvery light, guarded at its centre with ten stone lions surrounding a circular pool of sleeping water. Her eyes fluttered, and she could almost see the statues coming to life, growling in quite menace at the stranger invading their home. The closest one opened its mouth wide, baring sharp teeth in a formidable display of power and majesty. She took a step back, intimated, but the animal slithered closer, silent and silky like a curl of liquid light, as if his marble immobility had never been anything but a dream. Before the beast could hurt her however, a woman appeared from behind the columns of the opposite corridor, and the animal immediately stopped in his tracks. She approached with elastic pace, bare feet caressing the marble more than stepping onto it, and Isabel felt her breath hitch in her throat as the silhouette became clearer. She wore nothing but a white nightgown, yet her naked arms and the birth of her chest lay hidden behind the long rebellious strands of the blood-red hair that floated behind her, braided with moonflowers and mauve carnations. The animal, now quite and docile like a new-born cat, curled itself at her feet and leaned into the snow-white palm she extended graciously at its cheek. As if feeling the weight of her gaze, the woman then rose her phantom eyes at her; they glowed, phantomatic and tired, like bottomless lakes of pale blue sadness that seemed to gaze straight through her.

She opened her mouth to ask the lady a question, but she had already turned around, disappearing under the arches with the statue by her side. She followed them from a distance, weary of the glare the nine other beasts cast at her, into the most eerily beautiful room she had ever seen. It was larger than any room she'd ever seen, or perhaps it was the extraordinary emptiness that gave her that impression, and every surface from the never-ending walls to the high, lace-carved dome, was covered in an infinite labyrinth of details and secret symbols twirling into each other and raining from the arches. In the centre of the hall, the woman danced slowly to a song Isabel couldn't hear, the elegance of a long-lost queen flooding each of her fluid movements as she jumped and swirled like a tendril of smoke. At the foot of a nearby column, the stone lion slept peacefully, lulled by the woman's silent song.

Fascinated, she walked up to her like one approaches a feral animal, with tender caution in fear that they will disappear, but the woman only smiled and extended her hand. She took it, leaning into it like an anchor as she'd never learned how to dance, and followed her lead until a longing sigh invaded her entire body, born from exhaustion and loneliness and the comfort of finally melting in the arms of a ghost. She leaned closer, to hide her face between the freckles constellating the crook of her neck, but the woman flinched and gasped. Isabel backed away instantly, afraid she had frightened the spirit, but it turned around with a worried frown, tilting its head as if to listen closely, and pressed its palm into her hand with one last grip before letting it go and running away to disappear in the darkening corridors.

Surprised, both at the events and at the unexplainable sorrow that spread inside her chest, she opened her palm, only to find inside of it a single petal of orange-tree blossom. Next to her, the lion had awoken and was whining quietly; too sad to remember her fear, the young woman kneeled in front of it and pressed her face against the animal's soft marble mane, caressing its fur in comfort. The beast whimpered softly, like it knew somebody had died, and she closed her eyes as its warm body pressed further against her skin.

When she opened her eyes again, she was alone in the Hall of Kings; there was no woman, no lion, and no trace of the orange petal she had held onto. She didn't want to lose the memory of that dream, however, so she took a picture of the empty moonlit room and walked away from the Arabic palace as if she had never been there -like a gust of wind, passing through, but never being anywhere.

"So, you're into scrapbooking, now?"

She glared. Adrián leaned on the counter, lollipop stuck between his teeth, looking every bit of a child even though he would soon turn thirty.

"I have to say, this is a bit of a surprise, I wouldn't have pegged you as that kind of person; but I'm glad you found a hobby."

The neglected cup of coffee seemed to be calling out for her, black and bitter as she fantasized about throwing the lukewarm beverage at her friend.

"'m not scrapbooking", she groaned as she finished taping the last corner of the picture. "I just didn't want to lose this photo I took yesterday's night, and figured a notebook would be the best place to keep it in. I don't have any copy; it's a polaroid, you know."

The man blinked, then burst out laughing as if she had done something extremely funny. She had half a mind to get offended about it, but he didn't seem to be mocking her, rather laughing alongside her at a private joke she had somehow failed to understand, and there was such a ray of sun shining in the golden hazes of his eyes that she couldn't bring quite resent him. Confused, she simply took it upon herself to stare at him blankly until he caught the message and quieted down.

"Anyway", he grinned, "How is your notebook quest going? Did you find a map?"

"Yes, but it's infuriating. Not only is her doodling as clear as the handwriting of a retired doctor, but this combination of streets doesn't exist anywhere in the entire region of Grenade and according to the timeline, that's where she had been supposed to live at that time. Did she travel all the way to Cordoba to draw that damn maze? Sevilla? Extremadura? Where do I even stop searching? It could be anywhere."

He shrugged.

"Perhaps the streets don't even exist. She likes to write, doesn't she? Maybe this is a town for a story, or a place inside her headspace. You did mention how it resembled a labyrinth, didn't you? I don't think you shouldn't obsess so much about what could be nothing but a daydream. Did you start visiting the sport studios near the florist?"

She gazed at him, mouth dried.

"You're right, I'm in over my head. I'd better look into those, I'll start today. That was pretty reasonable."

He beamed and took to fiddling with the petals of a green flower in his shirt pocket.

"I take it you went to that shop?"

"Oh yes, thank you so much! It was so bright and colourful, I'm thinking of buying a bunch of yellow plants to decorate the shop. What would you prefer, tulips or coreopsis? Ah, but then again would those clash well with heathers? I'm thinking of hanging white ones at the threshold, you know, to welcome people in. Do you reckon that could attract clients? And celandines by the windows, yes, they would be nice catching the sun."

She hummed.

"Where did you put mine?"

"In the back, do you want to see it? I didn't want clients to damage it. It keeps me company when I'm brewing coffee."

She almost smiled when he laid it in front of her, tracing the blossoms with her fingertips like one caresses the cheek of a new-born child.

"It looks like snowflakes..."

"Flowers are pretty, don't you think? They look so soft, and so bright, and their colours are so intense, like walking through a forest painting. They make me happy, do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, Adrián, I do."

He stared, hazels immobile as they earnestly studied her face.

"Do you, though?"

She sighed in the blossoms.

"Flowers are pretty, I promise. With that said, I wonder..."

"Yes?"

"I wonder why she drew the map, you know? It's just, everything else she wrote in there felt so crucial and personal, like she was laying her guts bare in there because she couldn't hold it in any longer. Why draw a bad map in the middle of this, of all things? One that doesn't even exist?"

The waiter wet his lips and tilted his head to the side.

"I'm not sure. Why do people need maps?"

She thought this over for a second, then shrugged in acceptance. Good enough, she supposed. She snapped a picture of the flower and taped it under the empty Hall of Kings. In Bee's strange diary, on the page right after the map, was only written what sounded like a short poem.

"Down

To

The

Marrow"

She closed her eyes.

Pretty flowers.

She breathed.

Twelve years ago, in a train station in the middle of the desert, the devil had found her. She had been riding for a long time already, enough hours for them to stretch together in one sun-drunken parody of eternity; from Cáceres to Linares, switching between buses and trains and the next cheapest option, and then locked in a metal wagon treading slowly through the Sierra Nevada like a snake dragging through the red burnt dust to some other house, in some other home somewhere along Costa del Sol. By that time, aged sixteen already, she had let go of any illusions that this place, no matter how sunlit the streets and how blue the sea, would be anything else than one more room to be in, one more space to occupy with other people occupying another space in the vicinity, one more town to ghost through until she grew up and the state decided it would no longer be its responsibility to provide her for a space. But the train had broken down, in the middle of the mountains chain, and they had had to walk through hours -or was it minutes? Seconds, days? Who knew? The scalding sun had molten her skull- until they reached the nearest station.

There, unexpectedly, was someone; and as Isabel saw her she knew immediately that she was someone, as in a person, breathing and alive and not one more corpse or a hallucination from the heat, because she was smoking, and she could see the object drag back and forth from her lips, tiny paper stick held lazily between slender fingers, and she could see the smoke dragging, scattering apart from the burning lungs.

"Where are you going?" She called to the immobile silhouette standing on the dock who turned around slowly.

Dark brown eyes, big and wide and swallowing shadows in a startling contrast to the blinding sunlight, looked her up and down silently for a very long time. She could feel them pierce through her as the silence grew thick, and clutched her trash bags closer to her chest self-consciously. Finally, something in the woman seemed to relax, and she threw her cigarette to the racks; the embers died against the stones.

"Madrid", she spoke at last, and Isabel swallowed dry, and there was that. Later on, after the woman had died and Madrid was but a point turning smaller into the horizon and Mercedes was driving like a madman, hands clutched against the steering wheels and jaw clenched to bite back a sob or a snarl; later on, after they had held on to each other, naked and drunk and searching into each other's skin for a warmth that didn't burn, and she had promised not again, I will stop, it's over, things will quiet down I promise, later on, she would think back to that day and wonder what would have been if she'd ever cross the mountains. She wasn't naive, things would have probably been just as dark and intense and lonely and dull and a pitch-fire of deep-rooted uselessness, because she was born firewood; but perhaps, she thought, perhaps, and they built a life at the border of the desert, and she'd never try to cross it, but sometimes she would glance at the tall red silhouettes and think it would be nice to see the sea someday.

The woman's name was Marisol; Isabel knows that, because she wore it on a make-shift nametag on her chest. She had bright bleached pink hair that look like straw, and at the moment she was gazing at her with thinly veiled curiosity, glossy lips curled around a lollipop.

"I don't know if any of the clients has any tattoos", she said at last. "But I know of a few girls who might fit the description, so if you show me that list of yours I might be able to pin her down?"

It was spoken like a question, yet she knew from the purse of her lips and the scrunching of her nose Marisol already had a good idea of who she was talking about. Nonetheless, she handed it to her with shaking hands, catching a whiff of her perfume as she leaned against the bench press to grab it. She smelled like cotton candy and bubble-gum.

"Oh, yes," she smiled softly, "this is definitely it-you're looking for Nat, right?"

She shrugged.

"What do you want from her?"

"I have something to give to her."

"Sounds super sketchy, what is it?"

Wordlessly, she held up the notepad, and the girl's eyes went wide.

"Ay, now I remember! People told me that there was some weird woman running around the gyms to give a book back! I'm telling you, you're kinda getting famous around here, give it a few weeks and they'll be making ghost stories about you. We have a bet running on as to whether it's like, super nice or totally creepy, me and Juan-that's the assistant manager, he's a complete himbo but kinda hot you know? I mean with all that lifting, something's gotta give, and he's almost as good as Nat at legs which is cool because that's like, her job basically, but he also has that puppy face like it's on his face that he's so super nice, and I'm not saying hold-the-car-door kind of nice, but like remembers everybody's birthday and gifts you funny mugs for Christmas nice, but he always loses his bets because he's way too optimistic about human nature and all that bullshit, Nat is always on his back about it but-anyway, which one is it?"

"Eh?"

Isabel had rarely felt more overwhelmed in her life, never mind that the gym was completely empty except for her, Marisol, and the elevator music floating around.

"Is it nice, or creepy that you're looking everywhere to give it back to her?"

"How could I possibly know?"

The woman tilted her head to the side, probably pondering her answer, and with how close to her goal she stood, Isabel refused to lose now.

"I have no intentions", she blurted, then bit her cheek as she realized how desperately out of left field it sounded. "I mean, I want nothing from her-she seems cool but like, if we can talk it's fine, if she doesn't want I won't mind, it's just- when I found that notebook, I knew -this is something that matters, you know? In hindsight. This is the kind of thing that will make sense. So, I wanted her to have it."

Marisol's grin felt sweet and sticky, but not uncomfortable, like a timid teenage kiss.

"Natasha Torres Delgado. She's a local professional ballet dancer, well, she was, so you'll find out things about her in the newspapers if you want- she made front page about a month ago. She hasn't come here since then, so sorry about that, but she used to be a regular."

"Why? What happened?"

She averted her eyes, front tooth mistreating her lip like a nervous bunny.

"She has... Uh, she got sick. Risks of the job, you know, but she's kinda passionate with the stuff she loves Nat, you know, so she refused to slow down and take care of herself, and well, she has osteoporosis or something now, and the other day during a show she took a hard fall so- her leg snapped in two, I guess? Point is, she's never going to dance again, and since then, she's refused to talk to me or the others. So, alright", she took a deep breath. "I would be really grateful if you could give it back to her and talk to her, not even tell her to speak with us but, like, make sure she's alright, yeah? She's a nice girl, Nat, real sweet. Ay man, this really sucks."

She nodded.

"Where can I find her?"

"She likes to hang around in the abandoned dancing theatre when she's sad-I think you have a shot if you try to look there."

She nodded and turned to leave, having found what she was searching for, when Marisol called out again, hesitant and certain at once, with a clear sense of urgency.

"Wait! I will need your name."

"What for?"

"To tell the police, or send you some flowers; I haven't decided yet."

"Fair enough", she thought, and shrugged.

"Cruz, Isabel Cruz."

"Cruz what? I'm going to need the second one too."

"Cruz nothing. There is none. Isabel Cruz, it's just that, there's no more."

"Oh", Marisol tilted her head in consideration, rose hair spreading on her side like a falling patch of straw, and sunk her tooth inside the lollipop. It broke in pieces with an audible crack. "Isabel Cruz, she hummed. Sounds like plenty enough."

"My skin is melting", complained Mercedes, stretching her long brown arms across the table. The celandines on the window-ledge contrasted warmly against her nonchalant body, dripping in sunshine like a saturated polaroid. Adrián arched an eyebrow.

"It's not even forty degrees yet, Madrid girl; get off my table, you'll damage the flowers. We're counting on them, remember?"

The woman hissed and swatted at him, reminiscent of a feral stray cat, but complied. It was true that today was a special day for the Nube de Leche: in hopes of saving the sinking tea shop, Adrián had acquired every pretty warm flower one could buy at the flower shop, and his friends had come to help him cover the local with them. However, it had become obvious pretty that none of them new the first thing about caring for so many plants, so Felix, the waiter's new florist boyfriend, had soon taken it upon himself fussing over every plant in a frenzy and speaking to them as if he was comforting a small child, leaving the three of them to laze around in a small booth, drenched in heat and the summery softness of the Sunday afternoon.

"You desert hooligans are unbelievable", Mercedes muttered dejectedly, clutching on her iced-coffee like her life depended on it. "Anyway, lover girl, you said on the phone that you had found mysterious diary girl. Did you meet her? What is she like?"

A little smile tugged at her lips as Isabel drew her album out of the satchel where she kept the two little notebooks. She passed it at them, opened it at the page in which a black and white picture of the young woman was haphazardly stuck with thick brown tape.

"Found this is the newspapers at the library. Have been hanging at some theatre she allegedly goes to when she's upset; actually heading there after this. No luck so far."

"Wow. You sure that's her?"

"Yeah, Felix confirmed. Besides, now that I know part of the story, it just makes sense, you know? The flowers, and the grief without a lover, and the void, the way she speaks and everything. She's a dancer. Of course it had to be a dancer." She massaged her temples. The girl in the picture glared at her, relentless and passionate despite her the ruffled feathers of her blood-stained leotard. She shifted, and a ray of sunshine fell into her eyes, soaking the world in blinding gold. The air felt like molten butter.

"Honestly, I can't imagine her as anybody else anymore."

The waiter beamed, because that was what he did, and tugged a fallen flower in the untamed flow of hair behind her ear. It was a pretty yellow against her ebony, and for once she felt warm in her own skin.

This felt soft, she thought.

"This feels soft", she said.

From where she was soaking in heat on the divan, Mercedes hummed and intertwined their legs together, and Adrián rested his head on her shoulder. They were drenched in sweat and their burning skins scathed at the touch, yet none of them moved or seemed to mind.

The florist, done with the garden covering the walls and soaked in bright petals himself, turned to where they lay with a small smile.

"Do you want me to take a picture?"

She nodded. Felix caressed the Queen Ann's lace with careful respect. Summer heatwave had never tasted quite like this honey before.

The theatre looked everything the part; old, run-down enough to qualify as a safety hazard, but not so much that it felt like ruins. The faded red velvet on the seats, the gold paint peeling off the decorations, the dirty grey slowly eating at the white columns, everything smelled like dust and screamed of tiredness, abandon and something softer, bittersweet, like an aftertaste. From a broken shard through a blurry window, a ray of sun set dust particles on fire, last dancers floating like a ballet ghost.

Isabel stepped into the aisle, mindful as how her muted steps sounded deafening in the utter silence. Sat at the other edge of the room, straight in front of the middle of the stage, the other woman didn't turn around, but it was clear from the way she tilted her head that she had noticed her. Auburn strands floated like a halo from a bun coming undone and she thought, as all this nothingness stretch out, that the world crumbled around her. Strangely enough, she didn't mind; this was a pretty enough place, with pretty enough company, for a quiet apocalypse. She hummed.

The woman turned around, and she choked on a laugh as she finally met the colour of Natasha's eyes. They were pale, and of a limpid blue, but strangely they didn't feel bright; they were autumn, framed by the ginger of fallen leaves, like a clear azure sky reflected in a raindrop; and they stared straight through her as if they had been expected her from a while now, neither surprised nor disappointed, as if they had been waiting for this stranger to appear and everything was finally falling into place.

She held the diaries closer to her chest, and released a breath she didn't she was holding.

"There you are."