The White Wick

The lights went out at twenty to ten, with the first clap of thunder. In the Blackbird guesthouse, the lamps, the kitchen radio and the street lights all went off at once. Nerea, who was eleven and had the ears of an owl, stood still at the top of the stairs, listening to the rain against the windows.

That afternoon a very special envelope had arrived. Inside was the name of the winner of the village festival’s short-story competition, and Amparo, the head of the jury, had left it on the hall table, closed with a red wax seal: “To be opened tomorrow at twelve, in the square, in front of everyone.” Three guests were sleeping in the house that night: Amparo herself; Tomás, the cook who had come to prepare the festival lunch; and Valeria, who had entered the competition with a story about a seagull.

When the lights went out, Tomás lit a candle in the hall, next to the envelope, so that nobody would trip on the stairs, and went back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the hot chocolate, which was warming on the gas stove. Nerea’s mother handed out new candles for the bedrooms. Valeria took hers up to her room.

The lights came back on at ten past ten. Nerea went down for a glass of water and saw it at once: the wax seal on the envelope was broken in two. Someone had opened it and put it back in its place. The white paper was still clean, without a single smudge. Beside it, the hall candle, still lit, had burnt halfway down, and Misi, the cat, was asleep in the armchair.

“It was the cat,” said Tomás, coming out of the kitchen with his hands smeared with chocolate. “She’s always jumping onto tables.”

“I haven’t left my room,” said Valeria from the stairs. “I’ve been reading by candlelight the whole half hour.”

A little later, Nerea went up to take her a towel. On Valeria’s bedside table stood the candle her mother had given her: whole, straight, with a white wick, as if it had just come out of the box. Nerea left the towel, said goodnight and went downstairs to find Amparo.