"Buenas… días… papa… aqua está ti café," Isabela said as she poured me coffee, practicing her Spanish at the same time.
"Gracias, mi hija," I replied, immediately putting the mug down on the table, lest I spill it in the middle of my chuckling. "And what a good way to tell me Vicente hasn't been doing his job."
Triviño, seated opposite me, let out a heavy sigh. Since becoming her Spanish tutor and bodyguard, he had regained his seat at my table—which, I must admit, had made the sala lively again.
"Well… the señorita has her own schedule and ends the lessons as she pleases," he said, avoiding the gaze of the girl who had been smiling at him—until he said that.
I chuckled, louder this time.
Isabela's face twisted as she took her seat.
"Well… not my fault. You're too stern, like a real maestro," she chided, pouring milk into her coffee.
