Treasure of the World Tara Sullivan (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

been poked when I thank her for it. I don’t open it right away because I don’t want to be rude, but I hope she packed me a dinner like she did for Santiago. Then Yenni and I head into the main rooms of the posada to find Doña Arenal.

It’s odd to walk through the echoing stone hallways. In my time here, I’ve kept to the servants’ areas. There, the rooms are clean, but plain. Out in the main areas of the posada, every wall has a painting or a woven cloth hanging on it, and there are statues and vases with flowers on the tables and in the alcoves of the walls. The floors are intricately tiled, the vaulted mosaic ceiling stretches high above my head, and there are lush green plants in ceramic pots surprising me in the corners. I wonder at the plants. I reach out a finger and trace it gently along the edge of a leaf.

“Ana?”

I whirl, an apology already forming on my lips. Thankfully it’s only Yenni.

“There.” She points with her chin. “The doña is in the dining room.”

Doña Arenal is working on a thick ledger at one of the far tables. It’s between mealtimes, so the tourists aren’t here, but even without it being filled with fancy people and foreigners, the dining room makes me catch my breath. It’s on the second floor of the posada, and one whole wall of it is windows. Through them, you can see right over the outer wall. To one side, the city of Potosí stretches off into the distance. To the other, the Mountain That Eats Men looms like a hunchbacked giant.

“It’s a great view, isn’t it?” Yenni whispers.

“Um . . . absolutely,” I manage. I don’t want to disagree with her, but seeing the mountain on one side and the city on the other makes me feel like they’re two different worlds, with no bridge between them. It makes me feel even more like I will never have a future anywhere else.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m going to miss the posada terribly. It’s been warm, comfortable, and safe, and I had easy work to do. Yes, Carmencita is prickly and Doña Arenal is stern, but Santiago and Yenni have been nothing but kind to me and no one has judged me for having gone into the mines. I know that none of that will be true once I get home. Though I feel stupid to admit it, it’s hard to leave.

Doña Arenal has seen us come in and is walking over, her face severe.

“Doña,” I say politely when she reaches us.

“What is it?”

“I just wanted to come and say thank you again for all you’ve done.” I practiced this speech in my head all morning. “You opened your doors and fed me. I know that God will reward you for your mercy and kindness, and you will be forever in my prayers. I wanted to let you know I was leaving.”

She softens. “I’m glad you’re better,” she says, “and I’m sure your mother will be relieved to see you. Safe journey home.”

I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her that I’m leaving the posada not to head straight home to my mother but to go into the city of Potosí to search for a street fighter who might be my brother.

“Thank you, Doña,” is all I say.

13

Yenni hustles along the streets of Potosí. I have to almost jog to keep up with her.

“We have to go quickly,” she says. “I need to get back in time to help with the dinner rush.”

“Okay.” I don’t want to get her fired, but in the past I’ve only come to Potosí for church and festivals. I wouldn’t know how to find my way around this maze of cobblestoned streets without her.

My knee throbs with every step. My brain whirs—Am I about to find Daniel? Is he okay?

I swallow my questions and stick to Yenni like a shadow.

We walk through the streets of the mining neighborhoods of Potosí that I’m a little familiar with. Then Yenni takes me through neighborhoods I haven’t been to before, ones where I don’t feel comfortable. The streets are dirtier here than in the rest of the city, the houses shabbier. From a shadowed doorway a man whistles at us. Yenni ignores the man, her mouth a tight line.

I scoot closer to Yenni and we hurry onward, arm in arm.

We trace through the filthy streets of this battered neighborhood for another ten minutes until we come to a squat, ugly building made out of concrete slabs. Men crowd the door and waves of muffled cheering filter onto the street from inside.

“Yenni!” I whisper. “Where are we?”

Yenni takes my hand and pulls me to the door of the horrible building.

“Excuse us,” she says, shouldering her way through the men there.

I suck in a breath, shocked, but though they grumble and growl, the men let us through.

Inside, the press and heat of the crowd is suffocating. The stale air is a choking mix of the smells of sweat and dirt, roasted peanuts and stale alcohol, with a nauseating metallic hint of blood. Yenni pulls me forward. The world closes in around me; my breath comes in pants. My vision blurs and the push of shouting bodies vanishes. Instead, I feel the press of rock, the mine collapsing, suffocating me. You’re not in the mountain, I tell myself sternly. You’re in the city, with Yenni. Stop panicking.

“There,” says Yenni, pushing me up to the edge of the rope in front of us. “Is that your brother?”

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach and stays there. I shake my head. Because no, the boy in the ring is not Daniel. But he’s not a stranger either.

Victor and another boy about his age are stripped to the waist in a dirt ring; a grimy rope cordon holds off the crowd that surges and roars whenever either one