He is waiting in the library. My library. He cuts a striking figure as he stands there, his sharp chin angled upward as he studies the spines lined up neatly on the shelves nearest the window. There, he will find Spenser and Shakespeare and Marlowe. Faerie queens and star-crossed lovers and passionate shepherds.

The thought of him in my inner sanctum makes something in me rebel. This is not a space for him. Not a space for the part of my life that he represents. This space is mine and mine alone. I shared it with Ana, opened the door to allow her in. This place was safe in her hands. She knew—knows—what it means to me. These books, these wonderful tomes, were my windows into other worlds, other lives. Their fiction was a comfort. Sebastian’s presence is a cold, sharp stab of reality.

He isn’t wearing black, but his clothing is suitably mournful. A deep blue so dark it reminds me vaguely of the night sky when there’s only the moon and stars to give it hue. The dark velvet of his frock coat is interrupted only by a spill of white lace at his collar. It isn’t too much. Just enough to be in fashion but not enough to come across as frippery.

For the first time, I am grateful for my mourning dress. It is so elaborate, so adorned, so heavy that it feels like armor. Several thick layers of silk and whalebone separating me from the rest of the world. With that thought, I step over the threshold.

The floorboards creak under my feet as I approach. He turns to look at me, expression careful, pleasant, guarded.

“Eustaquia.” With an arm across his stomach, he cuts me a shallow, graceful bow. “I rather hope you’re unarmed today.”

I blink at him. And then I remember.

The noise of the tavern.

The caustic burn of the ale.

The cold handle of the pistol.

I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but then I close it again. What do you say when you realize you’ve threatened the son of the most powerful man in New Spain with death?

“Sebastian, I—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Speak nothing of it. You were not in your right mind.” He smooths a hand over his golden hair, an almost self-conscious gesture. “Grief can make us behave in irrational ways, wouldn’t you agree?”

He’s giving me an out. Why, I haven’t the foggiest. But I am grateful for it nonetheless.

Magdalena bustles in behind me, laden with a silver tray bearing what smells like coffee. Sebastian’s eyes don’t even register her existence. It is that way, I suppose, with people like him. People like me. Ana told me I used to do that too, in the early days of her living here.