Three-Cornered Halo by Christianna Brand

thin, sloping, purple hand, to send up a cloud of rosy incense on the forthcoming Fiesta di San Juan—which is also the national Day of Roses—did absolutely nothing to allay her anxiety. She sent round to the Joyeria a casual note: she had greatly enjoyed all their fun and nonsense (tremendously underlined), but perhaps a joke could go too far, and now they really mustn’t be naughty any more! Meanwhile, her cousin insisted (most tiresomely!) upon some expedition, so she wouldn’t be free, after all, to see the Cathedral treasures he had kindly offered to show her.… In pursuance of this resolution she had forced Cousin Hat to a day of mortification in the San Juan Museum, poring with passionate intensity over a vast number of objects of no virtue whatsoever except that they occupied her time; and on the evening ramble through the town, kept to Major Bull’s side with so firm a resolution as to make that great lover for the first time wonder whether, by any chance … But no, no. One or two of the older young things at the Heronsford tennis club made sheeps’ eyes at him still, it was true; and several of the unattached ladies in his party had been flatteringly kind. But … An old buffer like him, grown white (not to mention red) in the service of his country, overseas.… It was impossible. And besides there was Hat.
    Miss Cockrill, unaware of the inner uncertainties of her companions, meanwhile pursued idly the matter of the snuff-boxes. “Alas, Senora—who shall buy!” Unloaded now, and unpacked, they were stacked away, thousands of tiny crystal boxes crowding out all the storage place in his little shop; and no interest had been shown in the one in the window, none at all, though it had been priced at a figure hardly covering its cost, let alone the cost of the thousands that must remain unsold: no interest even from the touristi, even though for once they would really have been getting a bargain, even though the legend SMUGLED had been doubled in size, even though the inscription ‘Mad in San Juan’ had been copied out in five different languages on pieces of cardboard, and dotted all about. The end of the season and his profits all gone in this one undertaking.… “Alas, Senora—no buone, my poor snuff-boxes.” He produced one, however, from his pocket, done up in a twist of tissue paper. “But I have brought one—for the Senorita.” He handed it to Winsome looking into her face with limpid eyes.
    â€œFor me?” She stammered and lost colour. “Why for me?”
    Tomaso had spent half the night poring over tiny sketches, no sooner perfected and memorised than destroyed; and now his plans were advanced and he had need of a fellow conspiritor again; had need also of one so far implicated that she would keep ever silent, not for his sake but for her own. He looked back at her blandly. “A gift, Senorita. For the Senorita del Opale—to keep her opal in.”
    â€œTo keep my … But I couldn’t.…” She explained, stammering wretchedly: “Senor di Goya has fallen in love with my ring.”
    â€œAnd would like to see it happily housed—when it has not the greater happiness to be on the Senorita’s finger.” He bowed and flourished and, tearing the last wrapping from the box, pressed it warmly into her helpless hand. “Accept it, Senorita. It is alas! of no value to me—except to give to the Senorita for her opal.” And by the way, he added, and this time looked directly into her face and permitted himself an infinitesimal wink, she would not forget that she had expressed a desire to see the thurible—the Collini thurible—before it was put away after its fiesta appearance this morning. He had arranged with the Archbishop, all was in readiness. Tomorrow? At eleven, perhaps? He would see to it, make a definite appointment: would see her later this evening and confirm