Kiki perches next to Rosalita, wiping her brow down.

“You’re all right,” she intones in a soft, soothing voice. “You’re safe.”

Rosalita whimpers in her slumber, leaning into Kiki’s touch.

I watch, arms wrapped around my stomach. I am good in a fight, but comfort was never my strong suit.

But when Rosalita’s hand twitches in my direction, something inside me cracks. I fall to my knees beside the bed, taking her hand in mine.

“I’m here.” I wrap both my hands around hers. Were her fingers always this thin? This bony? “You’re going to be fine.”

Rosalita opens her mouth but all that comes out is a hoarse croak.

“Water,” I tell Kiki. She bustles from the bedside to pour a cup from the jug on a nearby table.

Her hand trembles as she passes it to me. I glance up to find her pale as a sheet, but maybe it’s just the black gown.

Carefully, I cradle Rosalita’s head as she raises herself up just enough to soothe her parched throat. After she drinks half of the cup, she pushes it away with one hand. The other she wraps around mine.

“He told me Ale was dead, but that cannot be true.” Rosalita’s weak grip on my hand pulses. “Tell me it isn’t. Tell me he was lying.”

I glance back at Kiki. Her face has gone still, her shoulders rigid. All emotion has bled from her eyes, leaving them as cold as a winter sea.

When I look back at Rosalita, there is such raw pleading on her face that I cannot speak. How could I form the words that will break her?

“He’s dead.” Kiki’s voice is devoid of inflection. Perfectly flat. Perfectly informative, as if she were conveying the price of grain.

Shaking her head, Rosalita squeezes her eyes shut. Tears well up on her lashes. “No. No, no, no.”

Without another word, Kiki turns, fisting up her skirts and walks out of the room. I watch her go. There’s an uneven quality to her steps that makes me worry, but I have only so much worry to give. And right now, Rosalita is soaking it all up.

Santiago returns with a large copper basin of hot water. Together, we clean Rosalita up as best we can. All the while, she cries softly, from pain both within and without.

Once the blood has been washed away, Santiago reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small glass vial. “I have a dram I can give her.” He pitches his voice so low I doubt Rosalita can hear. “It’ll put her to sleep.”

I nod.

Rosalita doesn’t even put up a fight when Santiago sets the vial against her lips and tips its contents into her mouth.

“How did you get so good at this?” I ask.