"Do you like the flower?" Mutis asked—not to Francisco, but to Catalina.
She grew nervous, nodded, then shook her head. Mutis was surprised; he had never seen soone answer with such contradiction. The disciple, however, understood imdiately.
"Master, they were tricked by the borrachero. That’s why she hesitates—she’s still afraid the plant is dangerous." He chuckled softly.
Mutis smiled, now grasping the confusion. "Don’t worry. This flower is harmless. It’s the Passiflora, which produces a sweet fruit." He plucked one from the vine and handed it to Catalina. "When the first missionaries ca to the New World, they believed the flower symbolized the Passion of Christ: the three stigmas as the nails, the corona filants as the crown of thorns, and the five petals with five sepals as the ten faithful disciples. More than symbolism, it shows the marvel of nature itself."
Catalina startled, glanced at Francisco, and only bit into the fruit after his nod. It was indeed sweet.
"Thank you, Master Mutis," Francisco said with a small bow.
"Don’t ntion it, boy." Mutis studied him with curious eyes. "So—you are Francisco Góz? You look quite ordinary to ."
Francisco frowned. "What do you an?"
"No offense," the old man chuckled. "It’s just that Mauricio and Sofía spoke so much of you, I imagined soone with a larger head—or sothing unusual." He sat down, and the disciple quickly brought two more chairs.
He hesitated, unsure whether to offer one to Catalina. So of Mutis’s guests were powerful n of New Granada—many progressive, but others still bound by bloodline pride. Allowing a stiza to sit at the Sage’s table could spark offense.
Mutis noticed the hesitation but said nothing. He often preferred to watch and see how such monts resolved.
Francisco, puzzled, broke the silence. "Excuse —if that chair isn’t for her, there’s no problem." He rose, took the seat himself, and offered it gallantly to Catalina. She blushed but sat as though it were nothing unusual.
Mutis raised his eyebrows. Acts like this were rare. Even those who argued against bloodline policies seldom practiced such equality, let alone in a romantic gesture toward a stiza.
The disciple flushed. "Forgive —it was ant for her. I just didn’t know if you’d allow it."
Francisco smiled. "No worry. My father raised to judge people by their ability, not their bloodline. I’ve always treated others as equals—whether Grandma María, our servants, or anyone else."
Mutis nodded. He shared Carlos’s philosophy, though he had long doubted how far the rchant truly believed it.
"Tell sothing, boy," Mutis said. "I always thought I could be friends with your father. Yet he kept his distance, as if afraid of . For years I suspected he only pretended to oppose bloodline policies. It wasn’t until his debate with the viceroy that I realized he ant it. But even then, why avoid ?"
Francisco grew uneasy. Mutis was still clergy, and the matter touched a painful mory. He said carefully, "Before I answer, I must ask two promises. First, that what we say here remains secret. Second, that if what I tell you makes you angry at my father, you may expel us, but please do not hate him."
The Sage studied the boy’s serious face, then stood, walked to the cross and Bible, and laid his hand upon them.
"I swear upon the Holy Gospels and before Almighty God that I will not betray what Francisco Góz entrusts to ," he said solemnly.
Francisco was astonished. A priest swearing so heavily risked excommunication if he broke it. He bowed his head. "Thank you."
And so he told him the story of Quilla and what his father had endured. As the tale unfolded, Mutis grew ever more enraged until tears welled in his eyes.
"That poor girl..." he whispered. He wept a while, then finally said, voice heavy: "Now I understand why your father keeps away from and from the clergy. He cannot trust us—and rightly so. I had heard of corrupt priests punished for such sins, but I believed they were exceptions. Yet if the Archbishop of Spain shielded the guilty, then perhaps the rot runs deeper than I thought."
Francisco placed a hand on his arm. "Not all priests are like that. And even if they were, you shouldn’t stop being yourself. You represent the good within the Church."
Mutis smiled bitterly. "Thank you. But even I have erred—never so gravely, but I am no saint. There are none in this world."
Francisco was struck by the man’s humility. After a pause, he said, "To be honest, I ca to learn from you. Next year I’ll go to study at Göttingen in Hanover, and I want knowledge that will serve well there."
Mutis sighed. "Ah, Göttingen... I fear our Church has blinded itself. By forbidding the knowledge of Protestant lands, it drives believers into other religions without even noticing—or perhaps not caring. But science is not heresy. I have always believed it is another way God reveals Himself."
"It’s not about religion," Francisco replied. "It’s about teaching. Göttingen may be Protestant, but it’s a royal university, devoted to science. You’ve heard of Roman cent? Like you, I want to explore the capacity of our world, to create things that can help New Granada progress."
Mutis’s eyes glimred with amusent. "Well said. Then let teach you sothing useful."
The two talked the entire day—about materials, transformations, successes, failures. Francisco absorbed new scientific terms with delight, forgetting ti until the disciple reminded them it was late. Night had fallen; only candles lit the room.
"Thank you, Master Mutis," Francisco said at last. "We must go back before my father worries."
"Wait, boy." Mutis led him into the garden, to a discreet, slender tree with rough bark flaking in hues of brown, gray, and tan.
"See this tree? It may not look majestic, but within its bark lies quinine—the cure for malaria. This humble fever tree holds power enough to change the world. Rember, the greatest treasures may be hidden inside, unseen. Take these seeds." He pressed them into Francisco’s hand. "Plant them when you return ho. Let them grow as a symbol of your own future."
Francisco accepted with solemnity. "I will, Master."
Back at the estate, he took a shovel and worked by lamplight, planting the seeds with care before finally returning inside.
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