A set of winding stone stairs leads downward into a darkness so complete, I can practically taste it. When I reach the last step, I stumble. Before me, all I can see is pure, undiluted black.

In those impenetrable shadows, someone whimpers.

With shaking hands, I fumble at the walls until I find a torch. Kiki will absolutely hate me for it, but I strike the dagger against the stone wall to create a spark. The torch catches, and I jerk it out of its holder on the wall.

The whimper comes again, louder this time. More pitiable.

Bottles of wine and spirits line the walls and aisles and aisles of shelves.

Cristobal’s collection must be one of the most extensive in all of Peru. If he wasn’t so loathsome, I’d almost be impressed.

Quietly, I inch forward, torch held aloft.

At the end of the far row, I see her.

“Rosalita.”

In my haste to reach her, I nearly trip over my gown no fewer than three times. I also nearly light my own hair on fire twice. I fall to my knees beside her, grateful for the gown for once. It’s thick enough to absorb the impact of my bony kneecaps hitting hard stone.

I place the torch on the ground beside us and reach for Rosalita. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her face is angled away from me, turned nearly into a bare shoulder. Scraps of fabric cling to her form. The remnants of the shift she would have worn under a dress. She must be freezing.

Heavy iron chains cut into her wrists. The flesh around them is raw and torn, the blood dried and crusted around the metal.

Someone will die for this. Probably many someones. But not right now.

“Rosalita?” I keep my voice soft.

She doesn’t move. The only sign that she’s even alive is the shallow, broken rasp of her breathing.

Her ribs. They must be cracked.

Her voice wavers. “No more … please.”

“Hush,” I whisper, cradling her face as quickly as I dare. I need to get her out of those shackles but she needs at least this one moment of comfort. “It’s me. Ana. I’m here to save you. No one is going to hurt you again.”

Rosalita raises her head, blinking owlishly at me through the tangled, greasy mess of her hair. “Ana?”

Her voice is hoarse. Broken.

What have they been doing to her down here?

I shake my head, dislodging the thought. Can’t dwell on that now. I have to get us both out of here. And fast.

A loud bang from upstairs makes us both jump.

“Someone’s coming,” Rosalita says through her cracked and bleeding lips.

“If they want to get to you, they’re going to have to go through me.”