It is only through the grace of God that I don’t yell loud enough to summon the hounds even this far from the magistrate’s grounds. “I saw him! At Esmeralda’s. He was being a prick.”

“You always think he’s being a prick.”

“Because he always is a prick.” I kick a rock as we get close to where we tied the horses up. Tornado huffs at me. “Don’t be pissy,” I tell him. I stroke the side of his neck to quell his irritation at having been left outside for so long. Rocinante nuzzles at Kiki’s shoulder, ever the sweetheart.

I adjust Tornado’s girth strap as Kiki does her own survey of Rocinante’s tack. “Look, this is the only lead we have. We might as well follow it.”

Kiki motions me over to help her onto Rocinante’s saddle. I kneel, cupping my palms. She leverages the toe of her boot against my hands and hauls herself up. “On that, we are in agreement. We need to know everything we can before we make any accusations. Maybe Sebastian is involved with Rosalita’s disappearance somehow. Maybe he’s hiding a secret bastard child. Either way, we need to find out what’s going on. If he and the magistrate have something to do with Rosalita or Juana, then we need proof.”

“We have the paper from the ledger,” I say, though even as the words leave my mouth I know how weak they are. How flimsy.

Kiki shakes her head. “It’s not enough. Not for men like this. Men rich enough to live outside the limits of justice. And de la Vega is a magistrate. Do you think the law is going to touch him? Do you think the word of two girls and a single sheaf of paper is going to convince anyone that there’s some kind of conspiracy afoot?”

My teeth sink into the tender flesh on the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to say it, but I do. “No.”

Kiki’s nostrils flare as she turns Rocinante’s head in the direction of the Sonza estate. I pull myself up onto Tornado’s saddle, placing more weight on the stirrups than I ought to. Tornado whinnies a protest. So fussy. The horses begin their homeward trek at a happy trot. They aren’t bothered by the thought of a conspiracy possibly taking place in the heart of Potosí society. They just want fresh hay and clean water. Poor things must be tired and hungry. We were stuck in the magistrate’s study so long, dawn is beginning to pinken the farthest edge of the horizon.

I should be tired. Exhausted even. But I’m too angry, too curious, too determined to feel anything of the sort.