Page 36 of The Lost Guardian

To his annoyance, the professor also enveloped Ali into a hug, kissing her on the cheek once again.

Santiago resisted rolling his eyes.

“Mijo, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Ven, ven.” They followed him into the first room, where he gestured to the couches. Then he opened an ornate wooden cabinet, which was filled with liquor.

Fernandez brought out three glasses and a bottle.

“Pisco,” he informed them, pouring them each a glass. “We toast to your homecoming, Santiago, and then we toast to your grandfather!”

“I don’t think—”

“What a wonderful idea,” Ali said with a look at Santiago that bore no argument.

Santiago understood. It would be rude to decline.

“Of course,” he amended. “Thank you!”

After clinking their glasses together, Ali took a small sip from hers.

Nervously, Santiago took a healthy swallow of his own. The liquid erupted like fire in his mouth, pinpricks of tiny daggers stabbing the back of his throat. He inhaled desperately in a startled gasp, but the cool air on his ravaged esophagus only made matters worse. He sputtered and coughed as Ali pounded on his back.

“I thought this stuff was supposed to be sweet?” he gasped when he could finally breathe again. His skin was hot, though the liquor hadn’t affected him yet.

“You’re thinking of a pisco sour,” Ali explained, looking amused. “This is just the pisco, without the lime or sugar.”

“I am sorry, my friend!” Fernandez said, handing him a napkin. “I should have warned you. Pisco is…a strong spirit, best savored slowly.”

“No, no, my mistake,” Santiago said, not remembering the last time he had felt so embarrassed. He placed the glass down on the table in front of them. “Though I do think I prefer the cocktail.”

“Then we will have to go out tonight! I know a place in Miraflores that makes the most wonderful flavored pisco sours! The maracuyá one is popular, but my favorite is the lucuma pisco sour.” The professor kissed his fingers for emphasis. “Just wonderful! You will let me take you both to dinner, of course, yes?”

He and Ali looked expectantly at Santiago. Why was it up to him to make these sorts of decisions?

“And you can tell me all about your life in the United States, and I will get to speak about your abuelo Manco.” The professor smiled, a little sadly.

That piqued Santiago’s interest. He would love to hear stories about his grandfather. And if the man wanted to talk about his late friend, Santiago understood that, too.

“Um, yeah, yes, okay. That would be great—thank you.”

“Wonderful!” Fernandez said, gulping down his drink and slamming it on the table. Santiago jumped. “It is settled! But first…”

The professor stood and walked to one of the many desks in his office. Then, fishing a ring full of a surprising number of keys from his pocket, he unlocked a low drawer. From it, he withdrew a silver cylinder about the size of Santiago’s forearm, though not as wide.

“Your grandfather,” Fernandez said solemnly. Santiago startled a little, realizing exactly what the older man held, but he regained his composure as he was handed the container.

“Um, thank you,” he said, holding the cold metal in his hands. He thought he would feel different at this moment. He held his grandfather’s ashes, after all. Shouldn’t he feel…something?

But he didn’t. He felt neither better nor worse about his grandfather’s death. He still grieved his distance from the man, both physically and spiritually, and the lost opportunity to ever fix that.

Manco may have been blood, but he was also more of a stranger than anything. Holding what was left of him didn’t change that. After a moment of uncertainty, Santiago placed it in his backpack.

“Professor—” Ali started.

“Please, please, call me José,” Fernandez interrupted.

Ali smiled, and Santiago found himself irritated that he had not elicited such a pretty reaction from her. Not a genuine one, at least.

“José,” Ali amended, and Santiago’s irritation intensified.