Morgan saw her face in profile and recognized the young girl in the picture in Santiago's room, the granddaughter he was estranged from.
HELL ARCHITECT RESEARCH SKIN
Her scarlet dress with full ruffled skirt accentuated her dark skin and her full eyebrows arched as she turned, arms raised.
In front of them, a young woman danced with the proud stamps and hand claps of flamenco. Court of the Lions, AlhambraĪ young man sat on the edge of the fountain, plucking his guitar while next to him stood two older men and a woman, singing a song of the gitanos, the Romani people of Spain. The courtyard was filled with people, eyes riveted on the scene before them. In the center of the courtyard, a great alabaster fountain supported by twelve marble lions spouted water, sparkling in the subtle lighting that only seemed to enhance the otherworldly atmosphere. The Court of the Lions was open to the night air, a courtyard surrounded by one hundred and twenty-four white columns topped with decorated archways. The overwhelming sensation was light and delicate, as if the stone palace was constructed of magically spun air. Slim pillars in cool ivory-colored marble led towards soaring archways intricately designed with filigree geometric shapes and Arabic calligraphy. They reached the Court of the Lions, surrounded by the stunning arabesque architecture of the ancient Moorish kingdom.
She heard his voice telling her stories of how the cave dwellings of Sacramonte had sheltered their ancestors as blood was spilled on these streets. She could see across the valley to the narrow winding streets of Albaicín, where she had stayed with her father so long ago. The mournful sound of flamenco guitar floated on the balmy night air, and Morgan breathed in the scent of flowers from the extensive gardens. Morgan led Jake quickly through the terrace of the western-style palace towards the Moorish buildings beyond. “The last set has just started, so you'll have to hurry.” “In the Court of the Lions,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “Where's the dancing?” Morgan asked the ticket seller. They pulled up to the gates and bought tickets for the flamenco event, heading in through the wide entrance. The eleventh-century palace had been constructed by a Moorish emir, and even though the Reconquista of Spanish Christendom had taken the city, the Islamic architecture still remained. They rounded a corner and caught sight of the Alhambra, the fortress on the hill a forbidding welcome to new arrivals. View of Alhambra palace at sunset Granada Spain
Her own family was so mixed in origin that this multicultural area of Spain would always feel like home. Faye's daughter, Gemma, looked like a Sierra, with darker skin and almost black hair, more like Morgan's child than her blonde sister's. A twin in blood, but so different in looks and personality. Morgan thought for a moment of her sister, Faye, back home in England. This was Andalucia the word conjured its past, the soft fullness of the Arabic Al-Andalus, a melting pot of influences from ancient Greeks, Romans and Byzantines through to Muslims, Sephardic Jews and the Catholic Church that still dominated here. Her name came from this area, and her ancestors had roamed these craggy mountains, only an hour from the ocean in the southeast corner of Spain. Her father had brought her many years ago, a teenager keen on discovering more about her roots. Granada sat at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Morgan was thrilled to be back. The taxi sped through the city and Morgan gazed out at the streets, busy even at this late hour.
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