The journey is a blur. Rosalita slips in and out of consciousness, and I am terrified in a way I do not think I have ever felt. Every bump in the road makes me wince in sympathy with the pain Rosalita must be feeling.

“Please don’t die,” I whisper as I brush damp hair off her sweaty forehead.

Her only response is an incoherent mumble against my shoulder.

When we arrive, Kiki pays off one of the orphans who hangs around Santiago’s tavern to take the carriage somewhere else, far from here, and abandon it. We can’t have our mode of escape parked right in front of the place we plan to hide Rosalita. If Cristobal wants to track her down, I don’t want to make it easy for him. Another coin is slipped to another orphan.

“Go to the Sonza estate. Knock on the kitchen door and ask for Magdalena. Tell her we are here and to send clothes.” The orphan nods, eyes widening as he holds the coin up to see if it gleams in the moonlight. “They’ll feed you when you get there.”

His eyes widen even further at the promise of good food. With that, he runs like the fires of hell are licking at his feet, taking off in the direction of the estates.

I call out to Santiago as we head inside. He turns to me, a scowl on his face that disappears as soon as he lays eyes on Rosalita. “Christ, what happened to her?”

Santiago grabs the unconscious girl’s other arm as we heave her up the stairway to the rooms on the second floor.

“End of the hall,” he says. “It’s the most secure.”

Kiki gets the doors, leading us inside.

In that moment, I love Santiago as if he were my own kin. No What the hell, Ana? Or Why have you brought her here? Just simple concern, right out to the gate.

“A very bad man,” I say. The less he knows, the better probably.

But it is enough. Fury blazes in his eyes. Everyone in this part of town knows Rosalita. And they all love her. “Lay her down on the bed.”

Kiki tosses the bedcovers back. They’re a clean, light linen. They won’t stay that way much longer, not with the amount of blood on Rosalita’s skin. Much of it is dry, but some is fresh, and that is most worrisome of all.

Together, Kiki and I hoist Rosalita’s limp body onto the bed, as gently as we can.

“There’s cold water in the basin,” Santiago says. “And fresh linens beside it.”

Kiki grabs both, tucking the towels beneath her arm and grasping the heavy brass basin with both hands.

“I’ll fetch hot water.” Santiago stands, wiping his bloodied hands on his apron. “And some rum for the wounds.”

He leaves, his stride purposeful and firm, but closes the door gently behind him.