Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 7: Finding Proof
“I can confirm my earlier suspicions that Don Mateo is the one who betrayed your father,” I say. “He forged letters, delivered accusations, and ensured the Inquisition would not question them.”
Rosalia’s face goes white. “I knew it. I knew he was jealous. I knew he wanted Father’s position. But why now? Why so viciously?”
“Because he isn’t acting alone.”
“Who else?” Rosalia asks with steel in her voice.
The words stick in my throat but I force them out.
“Doña Esperanza.”
Rosalia stares at me, uncomprehending. “My mother?!?”
“She met with Mateo tonight,” I say softly. “I heard them. She spoke of ensuring your father remains imprisoned. She spoke of arranging your marriage to Caballero Alonso. She said your father was a fool who trusted the wrong people.”
Rosalia’s breath catches like a sob strangled before birth. She steps back, shaking her head.
“No. No. Jeannia, you must be mistaken. My mother is strict, but she is loyal. She has been fighting for Father’s release. She ... she would never do such a thing.”
“She would,” I say gently. “And she has.”
Rosalia’s hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes glisten, but she refuses to let the tears fall. She turns away from me, gripping the edge of her writing desk until her knuckles whiten.
“My mother,” she whispers. “My own mother.”
The room is silent except for Rosalia’s ragged breathing. I wait patiently, giving her space. The bracelet glows faintly, as if mourning with her. After a long moment, Rosalia speaks again, her voice low and trembling.
“She always said Father was too trusting. That he was weak. That he donated too much to the Church. But I thought she was only frustrated. I never imagined she would...” Rosalia trails off, unable to finish.
“My lady, I am sorry. Truly. But you asked for the truth. And the truth is that your mother stands to gain something from your father’s downfall. I don’t know her motives for taking this path.”
“Did she say what she would gain?” asks Rosalia.
“No, my lady. But clearly she is going to great extremes to prevent discovery.”
Rosalia turns to me, eyes blazing with a mixture of grief and fury.
“All my life,” she murmurs, “I believed my mother acted out of duty. That her coldness was her strength. That her decisions were for the good of our family.”
She looks up at me, her voice breaking.
“But now I wonder how many of those decisions were for herself?”
“You are not to blame for her choices.”
“No. But I must live with them.”
Rosalia shakes her head, wipes her eyes, and regains her composure with a speed that startles me. There is steel beneath her grief.
“What must we do now?” she asks.
“We must gather proof,” I say. “Letters, witnesses, anything that exposes Mateo and your mother’s involvement. We must provide the Inquisition with evidence of wrongdoing.”
Rosalia nods slowly. “And my mother?”
“That is for you to decide,” I reply. “But I sense that she will not stop. Not unless she is confronted and removed from power.”
Rosalia closes her eyes for a moment. When she reopens them they are filled with a new and painful clarity. She stands, straightening her shoulders.
“I will not let her destroy my father,” she says. “And I will not let her decide my future. Go, Jeannia. Obtain the proof we need. Whatever it takes.”
I bow my head. “As you command, my lady.”
Once again I resume a corporeal body. This time a woman in her mid twenties. A lady of the night judging from my attire. As I leave her chamber, I cannot shake the image of Rosalia’s determined face.
The truth has freed her from illusion. But it has also left her standing on the edge of a precipice. And the next steps we take may decide not only Don Carlos’s fate ... but the fate of Rosalia.
The streets of Granada are quiet in the hour before midnight. The lamps have burned low and the taverns have nearly emptied. It is the hour when secrets slip through cracks, and shadows speak more truth than daylight ever will.
I return to Don Mateo’s residence dressed as a prostitute. It’s a role I’m not particularly comfortable with performing, but the bracelet considers it to be the best disguise in the circumstances. My hair is unbound and my low-cut gown is in a style that invites the stares of men. I’m not a prude, nor a virgin, but my attire is pushing my sense of propriety to the limit.
Images sent by the bracelet warn me that Don Mateo is leaving his house. I move across the street from his house just as the door opens. Mateo emerges, cloaked and hooded, clutching a leather satchel. He glances up and down the street. He sees me, but dismisses me as a whore plying her trade, hopeful of attracting a late night client.
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