Calmly, Iván says, “Try the next one.”

We creep down the hall to the neighboring door. This time, the key turns with a soft click.

Iván shoves me inside. He pulls the door shut behind us and locks it so no one can follow.

We’re in a small but comfortable room containing a four-poster bed, a wide hearth with an oaken slab mantel, a small mahogany desk with a stool, and several shelves for clothing and personal items. Everything speaks to a tidy mind that prefers comfort and practicality to ostentation.

A single high window lets in air and light, but perhaps not enough light to investigate. I consider lighting the candles on the mantel and desk, but everything is preserved and still, with a layer of dust across the desk and a bit of ash drifted across the floor from the fireplace. Maybe it wouldn’t be wise to leave evidence that someone was here recently.

Without a word, Iván starts sorting through the shelves, careful to examine everything while also returning it folded or arranged exactly as he found it. I follow his example and start sifting through the desk drawer.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for?” Iván says.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say, pushing aside a neat pile of parchment and an inkwell. “Anything. Maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”

“Or smell it,” Iván points out. “Remember, sweet dream supposedly has a spicy scent.”

There’s nothing of interest in the drawer. I shut it and move to the fireplace. “He thought he might have been poisoned through his tea, right?” I say. A kettle hangs from a swinging iron arm. I lift the top and peer inside, sniffing. Do I imagine that it smells faintly of cinnamon?

“I think our captain may have a taste for sweets,” Iván says.

“What do you mean?”

“Look. Do they smell odd to you?”

He thrusts a glass dish toward me. It’s filled with small, doughy balls that have been rolled in sugar and grated coconut. I give them an obliging sniff and immediately recoil.

“They’ve gone sour,” I say. “Tamarind candies.”

“But there’s a lingering spicy smell, yes?”

Reluctantly, I give them another sniff. “You’re right. It’s faint. The teakettle smells like that too.”

“The scent has faded. It’s been almost a week.”

I stare up at Iván, thinking hard, and it strikes me all of a sudden how very tall he is. I say, “You think Bolivar was poisoned both ways?”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Too much would be noticeable, yes? But if the poison is spread out, delivered in smaller doses through multiple foods . . .”

“Then you end up ingesting a lot without even realizing it.”

“Exactly.” Every time Iván gets to thinking hard, a little crease appears at the corner of his right eye. He returns the dish of rotting candy to the shelf. Then his gaze snaps to mine. He says, “Red.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“This could happen to any of us.”