I felt the air escape my lungs. He was going to fight in the Imperial Brazilian Army. Useless Manoel, who could barely cobble a shoe. I gulped. “When?”

“Today.” He looked down, kicking a pebble. I stood watching him, my fear keeping me rooted to the spot. It was customary for the women, whether they be wives, lovers, or putas, to travel along with their men so that they could cook and tend to their husbands when they weren’t fighting. Like cattle or, worse, slaves. I silently prayed Manoel wouldn’t ask me to join him. I wanted to leave Laguna, but not like this. My stomach tightened as he opened his mouth to speak again. I spoke first. “If you are coming here to ask—”

“No. At least, I already know what your answer would be if I did ask. It’s just, Anna, I came to say that I’ve always felt like I have had to be something for you. Something more than what I am.”

“Manoel, I—”

“No. I need to say this.” He puffed out his chest. “I have never been able to live up to your expectations. No matter what I do I am never good enough for you. I need to move on with my life and show you and everyone else that I am not a fool.”

He left me there, clutching my laundry in my fists.

* * *

June 1839

My days were tedious, spent doing household chores, occasionally helping my mother and sister in their work as housemaids for the wealthy. I looked forward to spending my evenings with my best friend, Maria da Gloria. We had met by chance, both washing our family’s laundry. She had forgotten the lye. I had a little extra.

We were brimming with ideas of what the world was supposed to be like. It wasn’t long before Maria became my closest friend in Laguna. For a while she was my only friend. I both admired and envied her. Her curly hair made an unruly crown around her head—the only reminder that she was a descendant of freed slaves. When Maria smiled, everyone around her shared her joy.

Maria’s father, Carlos, was a known sympathizer of the rebellion. His home was a safe haven for the most vocal of the rebels. Carlos encouraged Maria to speak her mind. She was his only child and he took pride in her independence. Maria’s mother, Dylla, was an amazing cook. She could make a feast for an army with just a little flour and chicken.

“It isn’t fair that our own government favors the products of foreign nations over those of its own people,” Carlos said one evening, slapping the newspaper down on their table.

“The loyalists claim it’s a matter of quality,” Dylla said as she stirred the beans.

“Quality? How are Argentina’s cows better than ours?” Maria asked. She stood at Dylla’s elbow, helping to prepare our dinner. “The people can’t determine which one they like better if they can’t afford both to compare.”