“I liked him,” Iván says. “The ambassador, I mean.”

“You seem surprised,” I say.

Iván doesn’t respond.

Rosario stares at one of the shelves. Perhaps he feels the weight of history all around us, neatly piled and painstakingly cataloged. The archive is dry and cool, perfect for preserving ancient knowledge. Still, the priests are in a constant race against time, scribing copies of precious documents before they can disintegrate or fade or mold into oblivion.

“Do you have anything else to report?” he says at last.

“Just that we have a new swordmaster,” I tell him.

“Master Santiago,” Iván adds. “Do you know of him?”

The prince’s eyes narrow. “He was the dowager queen’s personal guard for many years. I don’t know him well, but he is not Royal Guard.”

“So, in your judgment, he should not be trusted?” I ask.

“Definitely not. Like I said, I don’t know him well, but I did know Grandmamá, and she hated Elisa.”

“How could she?” I say. “They hardly spoke.”

“Maybe hate is too strong a word. She disapproved of her. Elisa was too foreign, too fat, too young. Grandmamá always hoped Papá would remarry, but she had her sights set on several other women, many of whom she foisted on him at every opportunity. A few even became his mistresses.” Rosario frowns. “I was such a stupid little boy. Every time he got a new mistress, I toddled after her, hoping she would become my mother. How pathetic is that?”

“You ended up getting the best mother of all,” I point out.

Rosario’s face softens. “True. And Hector has been more of a father to me than the king ever was.”

“Yes, well, that’s not saying much,” Iván says. “The list of things that were a better father to you than King Alejandro is very long. Like the plague, which at least shows up once in a while.”

I round on Iván, ready to lay into him, but I hear Rosario chuckle.

“And the list of things less traitorous than your father is equally long,” Rosario says. “Like a mosquito, which will stab you in the back only once.”

Both boys are grinning ear to ear now, and I realize I’m on the outside of an old joke.

Suddenly they’re both looking at me expectantly. Like I’m supposed to contribute something.

I say, “At least you both know who your father is! The list of degenerates who could be my father is longer than both your lists.”

“My little sister has a good point,” Rosario says, and a lump lodges in my throat because it feels so normal for him to call me that.

“We can at least be certain he was an Invierno, right?” Iván says.

“A worthless Invierno snake, you mean, who left my mother pregnant and alone,” I say.

Iván says, “If we had a flagon of wine right now, I’d raise a toast to surviving terrible fathers.”

“Hear, hear,” Rosario says.

“I’d drink to that,” I say.