Harlequin Espa¤ol Today

Cristóbal watched from the window of his attic. “You have the laughter now,” he said softly. “But you have also the sorrow of every diamond. Every famine. Every riot. Every tear a harlequin ever swallowed. Good luck, goblin.”

And so she does.

Lola didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. And she sang. harlequin espa¤ol

He did. Three nights later, Mateo woke to find El Duende sitting at the foot of his bed, wearing the tattered, faded diamond suit. The goblin’s face was pale, and his lips were stitched together with the same silver thread he used on his victims—but the thread was fraying. A small smile was breaking through. Cristóbal watched from the window of his attic

For seven years, Mateo stitched. And for seven years, he did not laugh. Not once. He hoarded his laughter in a clay pot under the lemon tree, waiting. Now Lola Montero sat before him, shivering in the candlelight. Every famine

Mateo didn’t look up. “Who?”

“What can we do?”