A pang of selfish shame hits me, sudden and sharp. Not one thought have I spared for her loss since the night of the viceroy’s ball, so wrapped up was I in my own.

Death has visited this house far too often, kissing each and every soul beneath its roof.

“Magdalena, your cousin—”

Magdalena clears her throat, cutting me off. “Now is not the time to discuss such things. You have a caller.”

Frowning, I glance at the window. The sun is nearly setting behind the great hulking ridge of Cerro Rico. It’s getting late. Far too late for a social call. “Who?”

“Your betrothed.”

Sebastian.

The mere thought of his name tickles something at the back of my mind. The sour taste in my throat intensifies as bile rises up. I grit my teeth and will it back down. Though my body protests, rather vociferously, I fling the sheets back and force myself out of bed.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Only to see you.”

My feet hit the cool wooden floor, a jolt to my senses. “Then I suppose we must not keep him waiting.”

My mourning dress is beautiful, and I want nothing more than to set it aflame. Preferably along with the seamstress who refuses to cease her meddlesome fussing with the lace dripping from the sleeves.

The lace is fine. The finest, perhaps, that I’ve ever worn. It’s so soft, it reminds me of spider silk. So soft, I can barely feel it brushing against my skin. Rich dark velvet cascades around my frame like the loveliest of shrouds. Black beads dot the seams, tracing lines across my bodice. It’s almost spiteful how well they catch the sunlight. It glitters off them as if they were jewels.

The dark fabric makes my already pale skin look monstrously paler. The light dripping through my window burns my eyes. My skull pounds as the sins of the previous night catch up to me. I want to wrap myself in shadows and disappear into a veil of darkness.

But not like this. Not in this lovely, godforsaken gown.

It is beautiful, truly, but I do not want to look beautiful.

I do not want to be looked at while wearing a mourning dress. I do not want to be found beautiful somehow in my grief.

I do not want to be looked at full stop.

But what I want is of no consequence.

Though I am in mourning, my grief does not belong to me alone. It hardly feels like it belongs to me at all. All of us—me, my father, even Ana—must perform our grief for others to see.

And right now, I must perform mine for Sebastian.