The first thing I see is trees. Tall, green trees, bursting through the ground as if their growth in this unkind terrain was the will of God. They surround a building that balances on the knife’s edge between humble and grand. The walls are a crisp, clean white, punctuated by stained glass that probably costs more than what the average inhabitant of Potosí will ever see in the lifetime.

The horses whinny as we get closer. They are tired and filthy, and they know that buildings are good. Buildings mean fresh water and clean hay. Hopefully. Will the nuns have hay? Only time will tell.

“I almost joined a convent,” I say. It’s an old story, but not one I have ever shared. It was a fleeting desire, from before we ever met. Before I learned to pick pockets with the best of them and fill my belly with the fruits of my thievery.

An unladylike cackle erupts from Kiki unbidden. To say I am glad to hear it after last night’s argument—if you can call it that—would be an understatement. But our fragile truce seems to be holding. Kiki shakes her head in disbelief.

“You could have told me you’d sauntered through the gates of the garden of Eden itself and I would have sooner believed that.”

“It’s true,” I insist, laughing. “A roof over my head and three square meals a day? There were worse ways to live, trust me. But I couldn’t afford the dowry.”

“Oh, you poor thing. You should have said. I would have gladly sold some of my jewels to cover the cost of your heart’s desire.”

I dip my head in a courtly bow of gratitude. “My lady is too kind.” Then, I shrug. “As it turns out, virtue is expensive. That’s why I never bother with it.”

“Yes,” Kiki says, as our horses draw up to this unlikely speck of civilization. How strange, to have a convent all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the vast nothingness makes them feel closer to God. That sounds like exactly the sort of nonsense the type of believers who seek shelter under its roof might think.

No sooner have we dismounted our horses does the door swing open, its hinges squealing in the otherwise silent courtyard.

A nun steps over the threshold, the hem of her black habit sweeping against the uneven, dusty cobbles. Her skin is weathered with age, the wrinkles particularly deep around the eyes. But those eyes are as sharp as any I have ever seen. They are not the eyes of someone with whom one ought to trifle. Even so, they soften when they catch sight of us.

“Welcome,” she says, her voice surprisingly warm. Her gaze slides from Kiki to me and then back again. “Which one of you is it?”

Kiki blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Which one of you is pregnant?”