Carmen’s face went pale, then red, then a dangerous shade of violet. “You vile, map-rolling—you spied on my family’s accounts?”
In the sweltering heat of Seville’s feria season, two women declared war. Not over land, or money, or honor—but over the last available bachelor in the upper crust of Andalusian society. Guerra de Novias
On one side stood , a flamenco-dancing heiress with a mane of chestnut curls and a smile sharp as a navaja . She was pure fire, raised on sherry and the art of the seguidilla . Her family’s olive oil fortune could buy half of Andalusia, and she believed Álvaro de la Peña—tall, tan, and tediously handsome—belonged to her by divine right. Carmen’s face went pale, then red, then a
“You can’t marry Álvaro without orange blossoms,” Sofía whispered over the phone. “It’s bad luck.” On one side stood , a flamenco-dancing heiress
Within a week, Seville had taken sides. The elderly dueñas placed bets with pearls and gold coins. The local priest, Father Ignacio, began praying for a third option—perhaps a sudden vocation to the priesthood for Álvaro.