The quinta outside Évora had too many rooms and not enough secrets. That was what I thought on the first afternoon. I was wrong about the secrets.

I am Marcus. I am twenty-three, the youngest by enough years that the others still sent me to the car for the ice, as if my legs were a public service. They were twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. A long table under a fig tree, the whitewash throwing the heat back, cicadas already bored of us. Bruna sat at the far end…