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Chapter Text

Maria Clara had been sleeping in her dormitory when it happened.

On the day prior, she had just arrived from a charity ball not too far away from her dormitory. It was a dazzling affair of music, laughter, and an exhausting whirl of social obligations. It was about time that she grew tired of it. The ceaseless whirl of such events had worn thin, and she often found herself weary of the constant pretense and forced gaiety.

The parties were a rinse-wash-repeat routine of every interaction being a performance. Though she moved gracefully among the crowd, exchanging polite words and perfect curtsies, the social niceties felt like a dance she had practiced one too many times.

When she arrived at St. Catherine’s nunnery by Beaterio Street, none of the nuns noticed this fatigue. It was a stark contrast from the loud chatters of the nobles to the nun’s solemn humming. She spoke no word as she entered the quiet sanctuary of her room, her exhaustion remaining invisible to those around her. After all, who would ever think that the Maria Clara de los Santas y Alba was getting tired of parties? The lady endowed with grace and charm; the bachelorette that all of San Diego had been yearning to take the hand of?

What a preposterous thought.

Alone in her room, Maria, thinking of nothing but more parties and celebrations for the next day, soon sank into the familiar comfort of her bed. The solitude offered a small relief.

And then it happened—the next morning, she opened her eyes to see a woman, appearing somewhere around her age, sitting at her vanity. She was dressed in strange clothing that screamed anything but modest nor demure. She had her back to Maria Clara and appeared to have only woken up when she stretched her arms upwards, slowly, then groaned…

Maria’s eyes scanned up and down at her figure to piece together her peculiar garments which seemed to be a shirt too large for her body, loose trousers, and leather shoes—oh, trousers! What was a woman doing, wearing a man’s clothes with nothing else underneath?!

Maria Clara was… baffled. She had to sit up to make sure she was seeing right. She blinked once, then twice, trying to shake off her disbelief, and uttered the only words that came to mind:

“Madre mía!”

The woman quickly snapped her head towards her, and she too appeared shocked—even shocker than she was. Maria finally took a good look at her face, which appeared to be dirtied and smeared with mud all over her upper lips. She quickly jumped from the chair and backed two steps away from her bed. Confused, she glanced down at her torso and clutched her shirt's sleeves, before stealing a glance at Maria Clara’s attire in even more confusion. “W-who are you?” she asked, voice edged with a hint of panic.

Something bubbled in Maria then. Was it anger? Or was it frustration? Another lady was in her private quarters, for crying out loud! At least it wasn’t a man, she thought, grateful for small mercies. She might give a few words or two to the nuns for their lax incompetence in guarding the women’s dormitory. A letter to her father in Binondo will do the job quicker, too.

Struggling to maintain her composure, she instinctively drew the blanket tighter around her waist. In exasperation, she remarked, “I should be the one asking you that, mujer! Who are you, and what are you doing in my quarters?!”

The two women locked eyes, tension crackling in the air between them. The stranger took a deep, frustrated breath, running a hand through her long hair. “What the hell is happening? Is this some sort of ‘joke’? Are you ‘magicking’ me—”

“Don’t you dare take a step closer!” Maria cut her off, raising a hand to halt her advance. Her heart pounded, yet her voice remained steady. “Not one step closer. I do not understand what you speak.” Without breaking eye contact, she slightly tilted her head towards the door and yelled for help. “¡Madre Escucha! ¡Madre Escucha, ayúdame!”

Within moments, Escucha appeared in the doorway, rushing to the foot of Maria Clara’s bed. The strange woman let out a startled cry at the sudden entrance of the nun.

“Aaaagh…!?” Her voice croaked with alarm, and then it turned into a shriek of confusion.

Escucha was momentarily taken aback by the presence of the unexpected visitor. It was, after all, a strange sight—at a glance, it looked as if the lady was a man, if not for her loose hair. She quickly regained her composure and surveyed the scene, her eyes taking in the intruder’s strange attire before settling on Maria Clara with a questioning yet stern look. “¿Quién es, hija?”

“No sé, madre. When I woke up, she was already in my room,” she replied.

“Wait a minute,” the stranger said. “Where am I?”

“You are in Saint Catherine’s beguine,” the nun answered. Looking up and down at her disheveled appearance, she continued, “I don’t recognize you, but I know you do not belong with the other ladies here. Who are you?”

It took a great deal of convincing from the stranger for Maria Clara to slowly put her walls down. “Madre… could she be a thief?”

The other lady’s mouth dropped. “That’s rude! How dare you! I haven’t got any money on me now, but I’m not a thief!” she insisted.

There was hesitation in Maria in the beginning, and then it became contemplation. The stranger seemed more bewildered than anyone else in the room. She was dressed in a man’s clothes, had nothing of value on her—excluding the small gold earring adorning her ears, and its simplicity which meant she may not be a high noble-born like Maria. No pearls, no bracelets, no peineta to hold her hair up. She had this distinct wide-eyed gaze that made her innocent, so child-like… Maria Clara wondered if the woman had simply wandered into her room by mistake in the dark, given that the dormitory had few candles lighting its hallways. After all, her fatigue made her susceptible to missing any noise an intruder might have made.

And yet the woman’s demeanor told another story. She was explosive, confident, and brash—a word rarely used to describe women of their time. Her mannerisms were almost boyish and impulsive. If not for Madre Escucha’s patience, any other nun might have considered having her punished severely.

After the nun patted her down, inspecting her pockets, the woman gave a loud exhale. “How terrible of you to think of me a thief. You’re wasting that pretty face on an accusatory attitude.”

“Jesús, María y José, woman!” the nun exclaimed, disbelief etched in every syllable. “Mind your language! You are talking to not just any colegiala. Señorita Maria Clara is a respectable maiden and a daughter of an esteemed gentleman, who is Don Tiago!”

“Whoa!” she squealed. The woman raised her eyebrows, her expression hovering between genuine surprise and sarcasm. “So your father is Captain Tiago?” She gave Maria Clara two, slow amused claps. Clap, clap. The second clap echoed through the walls with a mocking finality that made Maria suspect that perhaps this woman was… not entirely sane. “You must be the town’s ‘most eligible bachelorette’ I’ve been hearing about,” she spoke with unsettling confidence.

This was the umpteenth time that she uttered a strange word. It was neither Spanish or Tagalog; and even though she was well-versed enough to know some Latin from her prayers, she had never heard of it from any sermons, either. So she sneered, but said nothing more, a silent challenge in her eyes.

Then, as if to mock her further, the woman tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. “In that case, where’s Crisostomo Ibarra?”

Maria Clara’s eyes widened. Any suspicions she had had nearly fell apart. “You are acquainted with my childhood friend? …How did you meet?” Anyone who was a friend of Crisostomo was her friend, too. And yet why does she not know this woman in front of her? He never mentioned a female companion abroad in his letters, although she did speak a foreign language….

The woman’s playful smile dropped. “Oh, boy,” she said. Her lips twisted into a frown. “Looks like Ibarra hasn’t told you about meeting me in London yet.” She sighed, rubbing her eyes wearily. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m too sleepy for this. I must go home.” 

Mestiza de Sangley. That was all Maria Clara could describe her features.

“The next time we meet, you may call me Klay,” was all she said before leaving the room.

It wasn’t until this ‘crossdressing’ woman departed, with Escucha trailing behind, that Maria Clara took note of her dark hair cascading over her skin as pale as milk, and her small, dainty eyes that was as expressive as her words. How her tiny figure moved with an awkward grace, twig-like arms flailing slightly as she tried to find the right door to leave.

A Mestiza de Sangley from London.

If she were truly a lady from London as she claimed… how? Europe was so far away. She seemed so educated, so eloquent—at least in the language she uttered in. Yet she doesn’t speak the same language as the Sangleys based on what Maria had heard from the mannerisms of the traders her father had done business with in Binondo, and her attire would definitely be considered inappropriate for a true well-educated lady. Was her family that rich that she’d been privileged enough to be a brash ilustrado?

No matter. Escucha warned her not to deal with dangerous minds like her.

“Where are you from, and what are you wearing?” Maria heard the nun’s voice echoing in the corridor outside her room as she finally caught up with Klay.

“Ah. I’m sorry for being in my ‘party suit’. I wasn’t ‘ready.’ I used to live around here, but I’d gotten so drunk that I must have…”

Maria wrapped a shawl around her and walked to the balcony of the nunnery after their voices trailed off, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the Sangley woman. She watched as the nun exchanged a few words with her at the stairs by the exit, though it seemed any questions about her identity were met with evasion. Or denial. Soon, Klay nodded and turned away, pausing momentarily to watch a calesa pass by.

When she looked up, her eyes met Maria Clara’s gaze from the balcony above. The wind brushed against their faces, carrying with it a familiar, nostalgic scent that made her heart flutter. The two locked eyes for a moment, staring at each other’s faces—Maria couldn’t figure out her expression from far away, but it seemed that Klay was still in awe after meeting Maria Clara.

She did get that a lot.

She didn’t speak, choosing instead to inspect the woman with intense scrutiny. The Sangley woman, seemingly sensing her gaze, nodded twice, awkwardly yet determinedly; her shoulders rising in an embarrassed shrug as if unsure of how to respond. Then she left, walking towards the direction of the town church.

“Madre de Dios… I wonder what language she uttered,” Escucha murmured as she returned to Maria’s side. “She said: ‘ready,’ ‘skul,’ ‘magick,’ ‘kerij!’ What could they mean? If she is truly not from here, I pity the woman where she may end up now.”

Maria Clara pondered these words, her mind continuing to buzz with questions about the strange visitor. It would’ve been best if she stayed, figure out who she truly is—get to know her better. Surely, she hadn’t gone that far. “Could you follow where she goes, sister? What if we take her in for now? I’m curious to know how she knows Crisostomo.”

“Must you really, hija? You’ve interacted with enough lunatics for today,” the nun said.

“I insist, Madre Escucha,” she replied, her decision firm. “It’s the least I could do to help any servant of God.”

“What is this… strange fabric, sister?”

As she had predicted, Klay hadn’t drifted too far from the convent. Escucha found her drunkenly faint on the ground by the town church and brought her into her room with the help of a few servants; Maria herself had to convince the nun really hard for the latter. The other nuns helped undress her and put her into new clothes, then on Maria’s bed to rest, but they found something odd among her clothes.

It was a unique garment; unlike anything Maria Clara had ever seen. Covered with soft fabric, it resembled a chest vest of sorts, consisting of panels designed to flatten and compress the upper torso. Intricate embroidery adorned the edges, and delicate threads secured it in place. The boned sections were shaped to fit the contours of a woman’s upper torso and were edged with beautiful lacework. It was both practical and strangely decorative, as if it had been designed with comfort and a touch of elegance in mind.

And it had flowers embroidered on it.

“It was part of the strange woman’s clothing. I saw it binding her—” Escucha coughed, then pretended to sneeze. “—el pecho.”

Her… breasts? First, loose tops and trousers from a man, now a fabric specifically for flattening her chest!

“The strange woman must be using it to appear less… womanly, I suppose.”

Maria held the garment up and examined it, wanting to make sense of its purpose. It was entirely foreign to her, and she couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it.

“How wonderful!” she mused, a smile tugging at her lips. “Where did she get this from? And look at the craftsmanship! It’s so intricate.” She ran her fingertips over the delicate threads before positioning the garment by her chest. “And the stitching is so delicately done.”

“Not only that, señorita! She was also wearing a piece of clothing made of silk that covered her…” Escucha trailed off once more, awkwardly pulling her bare hands from the pockets of her nun’s habit and motioning towards her pelvis. But then she hesitated, trying to find the right words. Not wanting to get caught embarrassed at explaining it to the innocent Maria Clara, she returned her hands to her pockets. “…her sinful lower lady parts. I’ve never seen a garment snipped so short before.”

“Maria! Maria, she’s awake! The Mestiza de Sangley is awake.”

The urgent call came from the doorway, where a fellow collegiate lady stood. Maria Clara exchanged a quick glance with Escucha, her own curiosity piqued even further by the mysterious stranger. “Let us go see her,” she said, folding the garments neatly and placing them aside. She followed the ladies to her room, fiddling her fingers.

Upon entering, Maria found Klay standing beside her bed, her eyes wide with confusion as she took in her surroundings. Recognition flickered across her face, but it was quickly replaced by an unreadable expression as her gaze fell on the fabric Maria had been holding.

“Hey! That’s—” She stopped herself abruptly, pointing at the bony vest dangling from the lady’s hand. “That’s… that’s mine, yes,” she declared as she snatched it out of her grasp. She noticed the other collegiate ladies standing by the door and hid the fabric behind her back. There was a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I apologize for the trouble, ladies. I drank too much last night.”

Maria sat on her bad and Klay followed suit beside her. The former began the conversation gently with, “Forgive us for looking at your… tapa pecho. This is our first time seeing something like it.”

“‘Tapa pecho’?” she repeated, pulling out the undergarment once more and studying it in her lap. She glanced up at the other ladies in the room, a perplexed look crossing her features. Then she leaned in closer to Maria, as if to whisper. “Do you not have ‘stays’ in the Philippines yet?”

“S-stay?” Maria repeated, exchanging puzzled looks with the other ladies who were equally curious about the unfamiliar term.

“Yes, a ‘stay.’ Like a corset? I use it to cover up my chest, to make it flatt—” Klay stood up in disbelief. “You don’t know what a stay is? So that means...?” She pointed at Maria’s chest, her eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Huh!” she exasperated, this time louder. Like she was silently making the situation about being surrounded by stay-less women humorous.

There was a long talk about ‘underwears’ and ‘knickers’ then. 

Escucha explained how Klay ended up in Maria’s quarters for the second time. That she followed him closely, dressed her, bathed her, all to make her look... decent. Or at least, decent enough that she’d look the part of a noble. And it was all thanks to Maria Clara. The strange woman muttered something about being drunk all night, and that it didn’t matter.

“Decent? You’re the ones without stays and knickers...” she said under her breath.

“I don’t need any thanks, sister,” Maria commented calmly. Turning to the woman standing beside her bed, she said, “Bueno. How are you feeling now, Mestiza de Sangley?”

“It’s Klay.” Rubbing her temples, she continued, “A little lightheaded, but I’ll be fine.” But she couldn’t hide the lump of nervousness she gulped in her throat; her voice suddenly trembling. “I just want to go home. I’m sure my family’s worried about me. If it’s fine with you, could you help me get back? I really need to get home sooner. Drop me off at the ‘Infantes Shipping Company’. I live in the area.” Her words sounded unfamiliar again. Maria exchanged a helpless look with Escucha. “Manila is all so ‘weird’ now. The people are so different and—I don’t even recognize any of you. The whole area looks very different and I don’t know how to get home anymore.”

“Pobrecita...” Maria whispered, her gaze turning away briefly before returning to meet Klay’s eyes. “Miss Klay, we’d like to help you, but we do not know where this... ‘Infantes shi-pping com-pa-ny’ you speak of.”

“How peculiar!” exclaimed Victoria, one of Maria’s close collegiate lady friends. “‘Shipping company’ do not sound like Spanish words. They may be from the English language.”

“But since when were there English street names in this town?” Escucha asked. “Perhaps you’re mistaking it with the made-up towns in London.”

“Not at all! It’s... erm... ah, ‘Infantes Empresa Naviera.’ That’s what the business’s name is in Spanish. I—” With eyes bouncing back and forth between the other women in the room, Klay’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “Oh no...” she trailed off, a long pause hanging in the air. “What day is it?”

Confusion furrowed in Maria’s brows. “What do you mean, Miss Klay? It’s a Sunday; the eleventh of May.” she said.

“‘Damn it!’” she erupted, frustration evident in their tone. “‘Unbelievable!’ ‘Shit!’ ‘Bollocks!’”

“Dios mio!” the nun interjected. “It seems she’s lost her mind!”

Klay frowned and raised a bony finger. “‘Sister,’ would you stop looking down on me? First, you think I’m a thief, now you think I’m a lunatic. I am ‘okay’!” she insisted, keeping her temper in check, before turning to the other ladies, glancing at each of their faces defiantly. “Everything I’ve said is true—Crisostomo had planned to introduce me to you, but I arrived earlier than him. Though he gave me a written invitation before coming here. I already know there’ll be a ‘party.’ A ‘gathering’. A banquet! At your house too, Maria Clara.”

“¡Ay, caramba!” Victoria cried, rushing to Escucha with her fan covering their lips from the Sangley woman. “You might be right, Madre Escucha. She really has gone mad.”

Maria paused, absorbing the implications of the woman’s words. “...No, she’s right, Victoria. There is truth in what she says. There truly will be a gathering at my house. Although... we haven’t invited anyone outside my father’s acquaintances.”

Klay hummed in agreement, an almost defiant winning smile crossing her lips, and there was a knowing look in her eyes.

“Maria,” the nun butted in, her tone serious. “Almost the entire city knows about the banquet. It’s been the talk of Manila, nobles or otherwise, with whispers of sophisticated guests attending.” She emphasized the word ‘sophisticated’ with a pointed glance and a touch of disdain towards the strange woman. “So you mustn’t be surprised if this mujer knows a thing or two.”

“Oh, well! Do you know there’ll be a commotion in that gathering?”

The room fell into a stunned silence, each of the women exchanging incredulous glances. Their disbelief was palpable as murmurs began to ripple through the room, each trying to process Klay’s strange claim. Of course, commotions were a noble’s worst nightmare in a banquet. This had to be of utmost importance. Victoria looked at Maria Clara, hand flying to her mouth, while Escucha narrowed her eyes, as if trying to discern whether the woman was speaking truthfully or weaving a tall tale.

“A… commotion?” Maria Clara finally asked, both intrigued and cautious.

“Mm-hmm!” She nodded; her expression playful yet mysterious. “Why don’t I give you the ‘gossip’, miss?”

“‘Gossip’…?”

“Oh, yes. Rumors. Crisostomo had gotten word of a grand gathering at your home to welcome him back to San Diego. He was excited to see everyone again, especially you. During the meal, Padre Damaso, your godfather, will be there too. Crisostomo is planning something special—something that involves you. And the padre will see it as a slight since he is used to getting the best of everything. Crisostomo planned this all from the beginning. It’ll be quite the spectacle.”

A gathering. A grand banquet. Crisostomo visiting. Then a fight ensued by Padre Damaso, Maria Clara’s godfather, all because of her childhood friend preparing to propose to her.

It was all too much to believe. If it were true, such a scandal at a high society gathering would be on everyone’s lips, a topic no noble could resist discussing. Crisostomo would have told her about it. Maria Clara felt the need to feign belief, to nod along sympathetically. She had to lie. She couldn’t let Klay think she doubted her, even as skepticism simmered beneath her composed exterior.

She pitied the Sangley woman. Her heart ached with an awful guilt when she sincerely thanked her, in English, and poked fun at Escucha’s feigned defeated face. And so Maria Clara managed a polite smile, then gently urged the collegiate ladies and the nun out of the room, insisting that Klay needed a “well-deserved” rest.

The contained murmurs of opinions were let loose once they were outside.

“Maria, surely you don’t believe that strange woman!”

“I must agree, Maria. I am most concerned about her wits. Or lack thereof.”

“What do you think, Maria?”

Maria took no time to settle her decision. “I share your concerns,” she said, her tone measured. “I don’t believe every word she uttered as well. None of us know what or where Infantes Empresa Naviera is. Crisostomo would have written about her a long time ago—yet she appeared in my room out of nowhere in a disheveled mess. It is clear her mind is troubled.”

Escucha nodded. “Do not pity the Mestiza de Sangley, señoritas. What she needs is help.”

“You’re right, sister. Por favor, arrange for the Beaterio carriage. That poor woman must be brought to a psychiatric hospital. Only a doctor can help her for now.” Maria ordered, tightening her grasp on her shawl as if to ward off the unsettling encounter.

However, when the carriage arrived, the Sangley could no longer be found in Maria’s room. The bed lay empty, her folded clothes were gone, and the window was ajar, curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. Maria and the others searched the convent grounds, but there was no sign of her.

Maria Clara returned to her room not long after. Suddenly, her gaze fell upon the bed, where something small and shiny caught her eye. She stepped closer and found a loose gold stud earring resting on the blanket. She picked it up and turned it over on her palm. It was simple, barely even noticeable to be gold, and yet its presence was a silent reminder of the woman who had come and gone like a fleeting dream.

Perhaps it’s time to write Crisostomo a letter. She’d see him soon enough, but she figured it was best to send a dispatch for him to receive the correspondence as soon as he arrived.

He’d know the answer… would he?

Chapter Text

Klay Infantes was never much of a drinker. She herself wouldn’t allow it, her family wouldn’t allow it, and God forbid San Diego would ostracize her for even a hint of impropriety.

In fact, she was never the type to mingle in parties, either—even when she slipped into society’s expectations, the taste of spirits rarely tempted her. Her habit of taking the occasional sip of wine only began after her mother’s death when grief’s weight tugged at her with a need for something to dull the pain. She had been no more than twelve years of age at the time. It began as a sort of quiet rebellion, sneaking into her stepfather’s closet of barreled wines and twisting the knobs to have a taste of the sober, adult life.

It was a small indulgence that allowed her to feel something other than the weight of her mother’s passing. But even then, she kept it hidden. Never allowing herself more than a few sips at a time, always mindful of appearances.

Maria Clara was… not what she expected. Her warmth and curiosity had caught her off guard. It made her second-guess the stories she had heard about the de los Santos y Alba family: the aloof, untouchable, and impossibly refined figures that everyone in San Diego whispered about. She recalled how Maria Clara de los Santos’s eyes were always sharp, measuring her, and the nuns subtly probing for anything unusual. Not to mention the curious glances from the other collegiate ladies who treated her as a lunatic.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

Her unplanned encounter with the de los Santos heiress made her realize that she needed to do more to blend into this world where she didn’t quite belong yet. And so she spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the streets, lost in thought, trying to make sense of it all, before finally heading home on calesa with the remaining coins on her wallet.

It was nearing sunset when she finally arrived back at the Infantes mansion. She was still weary from the travel that she could almost collapse at the front gates. Before she reached the steps, however, she was immediately met by the concerned gaze of one of the household maids at the veranda.

“Oh my—Klay! You didn’t come home last night. Where were you?” The elder maid, Teresita, rushed out, the apron on her waist flapping as she hurried to meet her.

Klay’s face remained composed, forcing a smile as she tried to shake off her exhaustion. “Out running some errands, like the ‘father of the family’ insists.”

“Padre de familia, young lady,” Teresita corrected her spews of the English language gently.

“Right,” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else, as she slipped past the concerned maid and made her way inside through the outdoor kitchen. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re out to fetch supplies for dinner.” The maid followed closely behind. “Well, where have you been? I know you wouldn’t sneak away for an entire night only for ‘some errands’, young lady. And whose clothes are you wearing? Why aren’t you wearing the men’s garments you borrowed from the cuchero?”

“You know the convent at Intramuros, the one at Beaterio Street?”

“Saint Catherine’s beguine?”

“Yes, that one. There was a gathering last night at a nearby house and I spent some time in there, drunk a little wine, then found myself in the nunnery the next day.”

Teresita’s hand flew towards her mouth in disbelief. “Drunk a ‘little’ wine… oh my, Klay! Since when have you drunk so much that you sneak inside nunneries now!?”

“Since last night, apparently,” Klay numbly replied. She removed the baro and draped it over the back of a chair. Wearing only her chemise, she felt a small relief in the cool air against her skin. “I suppose this is a bad time to say I slept at Maria Clara’s room?”

“Ma… Maria Clara…? De los Santos!? Captain Tiago’s daughter?!”

“She offered to change me out of my manly clothes and gave me these baro and saya. Quite a friendly woman, she is.”

“Dios mio!”

“Don’t worry about it, Ate Sita. I’ll give back the coachman’s clothes by tonight and these baro’t saya…” Klay hesitated, her fingers running over the delicate embroidery. “They’re gorgeous, but I have to give them back when the time is right.”

“It’s not about the clothes, Klay. What happened to staying out of sight and keeping your head low? What happened to you and Mr. Ibarra’s plans of revealing you ‘only when the time is right’? You’ve drawn attention to yourself too soon, and to her of all people!” she sputtered and cried, flailing her hands all over the place as she paced back and forth between Klay and the servants’ table. “Friendly? Young lady, do you realize what you’re saying? You spent the night in the room of San Diego’s most revered bachelorette! And if she ever—”

“It’s okay! Sir Ibarra arrives tomorrow,” she reassured with a voice that slightly cracked. After slipping her head through the hole of her newly donned camisa, she turned to Teresita. “He’ll fix it. I know he will. Like he always does.”

It was right then when a heavy voice cut through the tension. “What’s all this commotion?” A man in a crisp camisa de chino, with a finely tailored coat draped over his broad shoulders, strode into the kitchen. His polished leather shoes tapped against the wooden floor as his eyes narrowed at the scene. “I can hear your chatter from the front hall, and it’s giving me a headache.”

“Señor Asuncion.” Teresita immediately bowed her head. Beside her, Klay straightened, refusing to wilt under his harsh gaze.

“I was merely telling Ate Sita about my little adventure,” she said lightly.

“Adventure?” His eyes flicked to the intricately-woven woman’s baro draped over the chair, something that didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the shabby servants’ room, then back to Klay with a sneer. “You’ve barely returned and already causing trouble? I expect better from you.”

“You’re the one who insisted I present myself as an eligible lady when I come back to San Diego. If I didn’t comply, I believe your exact words were: ‘lest I’ll kick you out of this house’—of which, as you seem to forget, my mother owns.”

“And as I recall, I am married to your mother.”

“Was, Señor Asuncion,” Klay spat.

“And yet here you stand under my roof,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “You may have her blood, but your mother’s grace has long since passed. It was I who managed her estate, took you in, secured your place here—not out of obligation, but out of a father’s duty. And this is how you repay me?”

She lifted her chin. “Don’t pretend you did it out of kindness. You kept me around to parade as your precious little stepdaughter while I’m treated no less than a mutt in here.”

The man’s face darkened, his grip tightening on the sides of his coat as a symbol of authority. “Insolent girl…” he growled. “You think keeping Narcisa’s family name protects you? Do you reckon a few fancy clothes and Ibarra’s attention will make you anything more than what you are? If it weren’t for me, you’d be nothing but a rat in the streets by now, scraping for scraps.”

“Well, if it weren’t for you, I would be the one running this house as she wished,” she shot back. However, her voice this time was weaker, more strained… as if she was scared of something jumping at her.

Her stepfather’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Klay thought he might strike her.

But he wouldn’t hit her. No, he wouldn’t dare to. Not her—a housemaid in his eyes, perhaps, but one backed by Crisostomo Ibarra, a man of rising influence and far more education than Ronaldo Asuncion could ever claim. The Infantes were no prominent family, and he had taken over the remaining descendant’s household, yes, but the name Ibarra carried a distinct weight. And though Ronaldo Asuncion ruled this household with an iron fist, even he couldn’t afford to risk a confrontation with someone as well-regarded as Crisostomo.

Besides, Crisostomo Ibarra had made it clear that “Klay Infantes of the Asuncions deserved better treatment.” For all his cruelty, Ronaldo wasn’t reckless enough to provoke a man like him.

Instead, he straightened, his face twisting into a cruel smile before stepping back with cold finality. “Enough of your lip,” he barked, tone laced with poisoned sweetness. “It’s no longer your house now, is it? The sooner you accept your place, the better for you. There’s work to be done and you’re already behind.” With a wave of a hand, he commanded, “Go on then, Maria.”

The name struck like a whip, sharp and dripping with venom like the words that poured out of his mouth. Klay bit back her emotions, how she wanted to strangle him then and there, by chewing on the insides of her cheeks. For a moment her defiance seemed to have turned inward, simmering just beneath the surface. Without another word, she turned away towards the servants’ private quarters, picking up the baro from the chair as if it were a shield. She could feel his eyes boring into her back but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

Maria Clara Infantes. Not a soul had uttered her true name since her mother’s death. She had made sure of it: that no one else could use her mother’s parting gift against her, and that it would die along with her grief. So she erased that part of her along with her mother’s presence, and replaced it with something hollow.

Admittedly, it didn’t help that she shared the same name as San Diego’s most revered beauty.

Klay’s sharp retort burned at the back of her throat, but she kept it unsaid behind her clenched jaw. For now.

“Ungrateful brat. She should be grateful she has a roof over her head,” she heard Ronaldo mutter. “And you, Sita. You ought to teach a fellow maid some manners,” he warned the woman in the room before he stormed out of the kitchen, heavy footsteps fading down the hall.

“Y-yes, señor,” Teresita weakly obliged, bowing her head towards his direction before she scurried to follow her into the room.

As soon as they were out of earshot from the kitchen, she whispered:

“Klay, you mustn’t talk back to him like that. He has the power to—”

“To ruin me?” She scoffed, glancing down at her worn-out shoes, her brows furrowed in seething rage. “He’d already defiled my home into his own personal Asuncion ‘whore-house.’”

Teresita’s eyes widened with concern, though she didn’t quite catch the two words she uttered. Must’ve been English. “But don’t speak so recklessly, young lady. You don’t want to push him too far. Though you have Señor Ibarra, Señor Asuncion find a way to make things worse for you—more so than he already has. You’d be risking everything.”

She could always tell the local paper about her stepfather’s abuse. But why would San Diego believe the accusations of the stepdaughter, a woman no less, of a family that had long faded from the town’s memory? Who, other than Crisostomo Ibarra, would care about the claims of a mestiza de Sangley heiress from the lower class clinging to the remnants of her name?

Klay smiled—the corners of her lips churned bitterly, but it was a poor attempt to not make the maid any more concerned.

“What more can I lose, Ate Sita? We never had much fortune, but I’ve already been stripped of everything that mattered. The few jewels Mother cherished, her home, my rightful place here…” she trailed off. “I’ll play the role of the delicate, refined Infantes heiress as he demands for his business deals. Yet I myself will still be nothing but a servant in this house.”

“There must be a way to—” Teresita began, but she cut her off.

“I must do it, Ate Sita. I won’t be able to get everything back from his filthy hands, but resisting will at least remind him of the boundaries Crisostomo has drawn,” she said. “And… if nothing else, at least I know Eliseo is unharmed. I fear if I fall out of favor, Ronaldo will find a way to hurt him, too.”

Everyone in San Diego knew about the sons of the Asuncion family.

But not all tales spun from their name were kind. In particular, one story always drew attention: that Klay Infantes, the daughter of Ronaldo Asuncion’s second wife, had two stepsiblings—both favored over the lone lady.

When Ronaldo entered her and her mother’s lives, he already had a child. Francisco, his pride from his first marriage, was the epitome of entitlement and privilege. He grew up faster than most children of his age, shadowing Ronaldo’s every move, following his tail. His polished shoes were a testament to their status—with some spoiled brat’s entitlement as solid as the gleam of the leather.

Francisco had a tendency to look down on those he deemed beneath him, Klay included. Oftentimes, she was grateful that it was just that.

Then there was Eliseo. No more than two years younger than her, he was born after Narcisa had married into the Ascuncions. Despite their shared blood, Eliseo didn’t feel as close to Klay, and at least it was not as distant as with Francisco. Ronaldo’s disapproving gaze often kept him at a distance. As if the mere act of acknowledging his servant sister was a betrayal of his place in the family.

She called him “Eloy.” Her mother, Narcisa, had chosen the name Eliseo, but Klay preferred the familiarity of Eloy. It was one of the few things that her stepfather could never take from her; this nickname felt like her only lifeline to the brother she wished she could truly know, even if their bond was only half-formed.

Klay had not been born into wealth. Her roots lay in the modest beginnings of the Infantes Empresa Naviera, which had been inherited from her mother’s father, and her father’s father, and so on. She never knew her father, and that left a lingering bitterness in her grandfather, a man Klay could no longer remember, towards her mother. Thankfully, the late old man had been generous enough to not hold a grudge and left the business in Narcisa’s hands.

Shipping businesses were nothing new in San Diego, and so the family business never stood out but remained a small yet respectable one that had provided a humble and stable life. And for that they were grateful, even if Narcisa didn’t have a brother to claim the title of heir. So when Ronaldo and Francisco entered their lives, Klay had thought it would be exciting to have a male sibling.

Having someone to call ‘kuya’ was… nice.

But as time wore on, the Asuncion father and son began to tighten their grip on the Infantes Empresa Naviera. The once modest shipping business was now under their firm control. She watched from the sidelines as they took over, pushing her further into the background. Ronaldo, with his business savvy and aggressive ambition saw to it that the enterprise grew, but it wasn’t without cost. In its place, he and his sons carved out their own legacy, one built on dominance and a hunger for more.

Their reputation was as distinct as the embroidered silk on their barongs. However, it was the elder son that had established… quite a reputation for himself. Francisco’s notoriety as a womanizer did little to inspire confidence in Klay. He wore his title like a crown and it seemed he had enough charm to sweep countless ladies off their feet. But that same charm felt shallow to her, lacking any real substance. He was reckless. And recklessness rarely led to anything good.

Perhaps if Francisco hadn’t been known for being a womanizer, a casa nova, then he would have married Maria Clara de los Santos too.

While Eloy, Eliseo, had seen better days. Unlike his elder brother, he was far quieter, never vying for the attention or admiration that Francisco craved. And that quietness often bore the wrong rumors like being a drunkard, a celibate, and maybe sodomy with the male servants…

But none of the rumors mattered to him as much as the distance they created between him and the only family he had left.

The sun had dipped below the horizon when Klay’s servant duties had finally been reduced to the last one for the day. The evening air was filled with a gentle hum of distant conversations and the occasional clatter of horse-drawn carriages. She stood at the threshold of the Infantes’—now the Asuncion’s—grand house before she set her broom down after sweeping away the final leaves of winter and walked into the house.

Inside, the mansion felt as cold and unwelcoming as ever. The wooden floors, which she and the other servants had polished to a high sheen, reflected the glow of the oil lamps that lined the walls. Her steps were light and deliberate as she made her way through the corridors, past the grand portraits of her late mother.

Klay changed into a simple servant’s garb—an old, worn dress that had seen better days—before her fingers nervously twisted the hem of her apron as she approached the kitchen, where the comforting aroma of freshly cooked tinola and its simmering stew offered her a sense of warmth. There were guests that came in, for her stepfather’s business feast. She began her duties in the kitchen, fighting her impulse to slip something unpleasant in Ronaldo’s bowl.

Then the night wore on, and when the rooms settled into a quieter rhythm, she allowed herself a moment of reflection in the servants’ quarters. The narrow confines of the room was stifling. She leaned against the splintered wooden frame of her bed, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the cramped room.

She shared the space with three other maids. All their small cots pressed tightly together with just enough room to walk between them. The air smelled of sweat and the lingering scent of cheap tallow candles.

It was dim. The flickering light from a single candle in the room casted small shadows on the walls. Teresita sat on the edge of her cot, her hands busy mending a torn skirt. Despite the soft murmur of the other servants talking in hushed voices, Klay felt alone in her thoughts. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of the coarse blanket as she stared out the small window above her bed. Outside was peaceful, stars dotting the sky. But here, inside these walls, there was no peace for her.

“He won’t give you anything, you know,” a voice broke the silence. The tone was gentle but firm, the kind of tone that came from years of knowing how to survive in a world that didn’t care. “That man only takes. He’ll keep taking until there’s nothing left.”

Klay froze. “…Eloy?” she called with a voice that barely broke a whisper before fixing her posture. “You can’t be here. This is where the servants sleep.”

“Oh, so what.” He took a seat on the edge of the cot, his eyes sympathetic. The other servants glanced in their direction, but they knew better than to disturb the stepsiblings. “I heard the row with Father this afternoon. He’s a hard man to deal with, if you haven’t realized that yet.”

She tilted her head in confusion. “You heard all of it? I didn’t see you or Francisco by the kitchen.”

Eliseo gave a half-smile, though there was something guarded about it. He tried his best to not shift his eyes at Teresita who lingered just behind Klay. “Yes, I suppose I have ears. Or at least, as far as I can remember.”

She chuckled and playfully tugged his ear before sitting beside him, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the bedsheets. “It’s not about him being hard to deal with, Eloy. It’s about finding a way to make things right. I cannot simply sit here and let him undermine everything my… our mother worked for.”

He leaned forward slightly, and with his voice low muttered, “And what exactly are you going to do, Ate? You think standing up to him will change anything? He’ll take more than you can ever hope to get back. That’s how he is.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for permission.  I only need to find the right way and the right time.”

Eliseo studied her for a moment, his brow furrowing. “You’ve always been like this. Determined. Strong-willed. Always ready to fight Father even if your fists were smaller than a pebble. You haven’t changed, Ate. You’re… stronger than me, but you’re not invincible either.”

She blinked, surprised by his words. She studied her brother’s expression, searching for the unspoken fears hidden behind his eyes. The vulnerability in his gaze made her heart twist. Then with finality, she settled with, “I don’t have a choice, Eloy.”

Eliseo fell silent for a moment, processing her words. “Do you ever regret it?” he asked.

“Regret what?”

“Accompanying Señor Crisostomo Ibarra to Europe. Instead of coming with me to live at the colegios in Intramuros.”

“Not at all. Europe’s closer to home than one would think.”

“But Intramuros is only one calesa away.”

Klay sighed. “My dear little brother… they wouldn’t have accepted me there. They aren’t ready to educate women in Manila yet.”

“But you wouldn’t have been Crisostomo’s maid—or any maid for that matter,” he insisted. He glanced around at the other maids in the room. “With me, you would have been my sister.”

Her heart ached at the thought of their lost time together. Not enough time… but will they ever have the time? “Being a sister isn’t enough, Eloy. You know that. I must make a place for myself in a world that would have otherwise ignored me.”

He opened his mouth to protest when just then, a soft commotion echoed from the hallway. The sound of hurried footsteps and hushed whispers drew their attention, and their hearts raced as they turned to see what was happening.

“Ate Klay, Ate Klay!” a voice called from outside.

A servant dashed into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with urgency. Klay felt a knot tighten in her stomach; something was wrong.

The girl stopped short, catching her breath, and glanced around the room as if expecting someone else to be present. When her gaze landed on Klay, she rushed forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ate Klay! You need to see this!” She held out a folded piece of paper, trembling slightly as she did.

She reached for the note, her fingers brushing against the cool, rough surface of the paper. “Who is it from?” she asked.

“They insisted you read it now!”

With trembling fingers, Klay unfolded the paper, heart pounding in her chest. The familiar scrawl sent a chill down her spine, and she fought to keep her hands steady as she read the words:

            I have received word that you’ve met Maria Clara.

            But there is a shift in plans. Someone’s discovered ours.

           -C.