“That sounds wonderful,” I say.

He lifts a bell from the desk and rings it, then makes his way slowly to the divan, which is a lavishly cushioned affair in deep, dusty purple. He plunks down and sinks into the cushions as though his short trek across the room was as tiring as a lap around the palace walls.

“As much as I’m glad for the company,” Valentino says, “I’m sure you’re not here to check on me.”

His forthrightness makes me smile. “Checking on you is part of the reason we’re here,” I say. “Does your family physician expect you to make a full recovery?”

“He does. It’s been slow; I was badly poisoned. But I expect I’ll be able to join the army recruits in a few months. Because of my father’s station . . .” Valentino pauses to stare at my hairline. The pause lengthens.

I stare back at him, saying nothing.

Valentino blinks. “Er, because of my father’s station, joining the army will come with an automatic officer’s commission, so long as I survive their recruit training.”

“You’ll excel in the army,” Iván says. “I have no doubt.”

“Thank you.”

I say, “I wish there was a way for you to come back to the Guard.”

Valentino gives me a sad smile. “Me too. But once cut, you’re cut forever. It won’t be so bad in the army. Beto and the others joined up already, as soon as they left the Guard. They say it’s a lot harder than Royal Guard training. The food isn’t nearly as good, and none of their boots fit quite right, but . . .”

His voice trails away at the look on my face.

“Oh, Red, I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” Valentino says. “I did not ask them to do that, and when they visited me, I gave them all a stern talking-to.”

“They needed more than a stern talking-to,” Iván grumbles.

“They did,” Valentino agrees. “But I was bedridden at the time.”

A servant hurries in, and Valentino orders three glasses of chilled coconut milk.

After he leaves, I say, “Valentino, I believe you when you say you didn’t ask the Ciénega del Sur boys to attack me. But do you know if anyone else did?”

Valentino frowns. “Not that I know of. Though, to be honest, none of them is a particularly original thinker.”

“We thought someone might have goaded them into it,” Iván says.

I open my mouth and barely stop short of suggesting that maybe his own father is to blame. I don’t want to put Valentino on the defensive too soon, because we have an even more important question yet to ask.

“You might be right,” Valentino concedes. “Though I’m not sure it matters now.”

Iván says, “It matters because if someone else was behind this, Red could be attacked again.”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” Valentino takes a deep breath, releases it in a heavy sigh.

The servant returns with three glasses balanced on a silver tray, and he hands one to each of us. I give mine a subtle sniff—no telltale cinnamon scent. Still, I wait for Valentino to sip and swallow before following suit.