I guess I want my legacy to be more than a pile of ashen bones.

In the center of it all stands an altar of white marble veined in black. On it are three fresh long-stemmed roses. They are the holy variety, with the sharpest and hardest of thorns, just in case a supplicant wishes to prick a finger and offer a drop of blood in the holy sacrament of pain.

Arched doorways on either side open to dark tombs. “This way.” I lead Iván into the third doorway on the right.

Inside are several caskets resting on giant pedestals, each covered in a silken banner. Some of the banners are old and tattered and moth-eaten. One is barely a decade old and in excellent condition.

“Is that . . . ?”

“King Alejandro,” I confirm. “Elisa’s first husband and Rosario’s father.”

Iván stares at the casket, unblinking, for the space of several breaths.

“Iván?”

“Rosario always says the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, from generation to generation.”

“That’s from the Scriptura Sancta,” I say. The holy text is full of horrible things like that. It’s one of the reasons I could never believe in a god.

“I liked him,” Iván says. “The king, I mean. Everyone says he was a weak monarch, an inattentive father. But he was kind to me.”

“You met him?”

“When I was very little. Six or seven.” I remind myself that Iván’s father was a member of the Quorum of Five and a part-time resident of this palace, before he turned traitor and tried to start a civil war. So it makes sense that Iván would have met the royal family at a young age.

“He must have made an impression,” I say.

Iván shrugs. “I guess. Where to next, bossy girl?” He’s trying to pass it off like it’s no big deal, but once again shadows veil his eyes, and he refuses to meet my gaze.

“Over here. There’s a small latch beneath the base of the casket. Help me find it? I’ve never come this way alone before.”

Together, we crouch to run our fingers along the base of the pedestal. The floor is gritty here, and slightly damp against my fingertips.

“I’ve got it,” he says. I leap backward to make room as the casket pivots to the side, revealing a deep stairway spiraling down into blackness.

“Holy God,” Iván says.

“Be very careful. Sometimes these steps are covered in a really gross slime.”

“Slime?”

“Algae, maybe? It’s very wet, where we’re going.”

“This is the weirdest night of my life,” he mutters to himself.

The stairway leads deep into the earth, and the going is agonizingly slow. I’m always hesitant to place my hand on the wall for balance, lest I risk shoving slime beneath my fingernails. Finally it levels off, and the tunnel opens to an irregular, cave-like chamber. Sand covers the floor, rippled from being underwater at high tide. Barnacles climb the walls to knee height.