“There are gaps in the ceiling,” he says, looking up. “That one ladder leads to . . . where?”

“The Wallows. To a hut with a trapdoor—all under heavy guard. The surrounding yard is a bit porous. During the day, enough light filters down that torches are unnecessary.”

“The Wallows is the most dangerous district in Brisadulce.”

“Which makes it a good place for a hideout, don’t you think? Enough gawking. Let’s go find Rosario.”

“I see him—right up there.”

A quiet shape waits just ahead in the shadows, where a niche has been carved into the stone. He’s dressed in drab servants’ clothes, not even those of palace servants—but I recognize the stance, the peculiar tenseness, at once. I am afraid for him.

Rosario sees us on the path at the same moment. He steps from the shadow, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Red. Iván. I’m so glad you’re here.” Before I can respond, he grabs me, hugs me tight, doesn’t let go. “Little sister,” he says in my ear. “It’s been a really long day.”

I squeeze him back. “For us too, little brother. Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

Rosario releases me, steps away to clap Iván on the back. “Come with me,” he says. “I have to show you something.”

He leads us to the very edge of the village, where a hut cozies up to the cavern wall. A curtain embroidered with red sacrament roses covers the doorway. Rosario sweeps the curtain aside and ushers us inside.

An oil lamp hangs from the ceiling, illuminating a round space with a dirt floor. On the floor is a single bed pallet of palm fronds and sheepskin. A man lies there, his back to us. Gray peppers his black hair, along with a fair amount of cavern scree.

“I’ve brought some friends,” Rosario says to the man on the floor.

The man turns over—slowly and painfully—revealing days-old stubble, bloodshot eyes, and a pallor so blanched and sickly I almost don’t recognize him. When I do, I gasp.

It’s Bolivar, the missing captain. The man who was supposed to speak for me at my adoption ceremony.

“Lady Red,” he says, his voice cracked and aching.

“Captain! You look awful.”

“That’s her way of saying she’s really glad to see you,” Rosario amends.

The captain’s smile is weak. “I know how she is. And who are you?” he says to Iván.

“This is my friend Iván,” Rosario says. “He’s the younger brother of Lord-Conde Juan-Carlos.”

“Ah, yes, the traitor’s son.”

Iván’s face is as cold and lifeless as the grave, and I feel a twinge of something uncomfortable.

Softly I say, “Iván is not his father, apparently.”

Iván gives me a quizzical look.

“Of course not,” the captain says. “I just . . . this blasted illness has made me tired and . . . uncouth.” He closes his eyes a moment and breathes deeply through his nose, as though summoning strength.

“So, what happened?” I ask. “Rosario, are you in danger?”