Hauling Kiki up the stairs and into her room is an ordeal in and of itself, but we make it in one piece. As a unit, we collapse onto the bed. Breathing heavily, I lay beside her, not bothering with my own clothes and boots, mud-stained though they are. She shouldn’t be alone. Also, I’m tired as hell, and my own scattered thoughts will be poor company. Sebastian’s words chew at me, long into the night.

There are far worse men out there.

CHAPTER 18

Kiki

When I wake—if you can call clawing myself from the edge of a pained oblivion waking—my mouth is filled with the sour taste of vomit and the even sourer taste of regret. I roll over, burying my face in my pillow. Squinting one eye open, I check to see if I am alone. I have the vaguest recollection of Ana carrying me home, hauling me through the front door, not even caring if the servants saw. What propriety is there to save in a family marked by suicide and scandal?

My bed is empty, but there is a lone strand of red hair lying on the pillow next to me. So, she did spend the night. I haven’t the foggiest clue where she’s gone off to, but the sight of that single strand warms something within me, even if I do still feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of very angry cattle.

I don’t know how much I drank—a bad sign, to be sure—but if my body had decided to expel its contents during the night, it must have been far more than I could safely hold. My memory is pocked with gaps. Did we talk to Rosalita? Did she know anything? I remember having the plan to return to Esmeralda’s but a low, sinking feeling in my gut suggests that my behavior scuttled those plans.

A knock sounds at the door—far too loud for my liking—before I can put together the broken pieces of my memories.

The door opens a scant few inches, allowing Magdalena to slink in between the narrow gap. She moves as if everything hurts. Her face is pinched, her hair—normally so tidy—is dull and lank. Her eyes rove over the room, touching each item of the mess I’d left behind. My muddied boots, dropped where Ana must have pulled them off my feet. A woolen frock coat stained with a bit of sick. A white shirt crumpled by the bed like so much garbage. She closes the door behind her and stands just inside the threshold, her face drawn.

“You’re up.” Magdalena’s voice is thin and reedy, as if it had gone unused for quite some time. “I’m sorry to disturb you but…”