She does. Her skin is sallow and her eyes are strained and tired but she looks at me.

“Don’t you ever say anything like that again.”

“But I—”

“But nothing. You came back. For me. For us.” Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “That is what matters. That is all that matters.”

She opens her mouth, as if to argue, so I don’t give her the chance.

I slot my mouth over hers, stealing whatever excuses or self-loathing diatribes are about to pour free.

She goes tense, but after a second, she relaxes, moving her lips against mine.

It is not a sweet kiss. It is hard and a little sad, but it is no less precious to me for it. When I pull away, I rest my forehead against hers.

“I love you,” I say softly, brushing my bloody fingers against her cheek. We are, both of us, such a goddamn mess. “Even when you’re being a fool.”

The sound she makes isn’t quite a laugh, but it is a near thing.

“You’re too good for me,” Kiki says, sniffling.

I nod solemnly. “Yes, I am.”

Now that pulls an honest laugh out of her. It’s followed immediately by a pained hiss, but that’s fine. After all, it’s just a flesh wound. And if she can laugh after tonight, after everything, then we’re going to be all right.

CHAPTER 33

Kiki

“To the valiant ladies of Potosí.”

Santiago clinks his cup against mine, and then Ana’s. He tosses back the wine, downing the entire contents of the cup in a single, practiced move. A patron from the other side of the tavern beckons for his attention and he leaves us to fend for ourselves. I lean against the bar, slouching uncomfortably. At least we’re out of the dresses. Not only were they ruined, but they were conspicuous as all hell. Magdalena arrived two hours after the orphan had run off, coin in hand. She had dutifully delivered a wrapped parcel of clothes—and menswear, God bless her—but not even duty could keep her from scrunching her nose at the sight of the tavern’s clientele.

“Stay for a drink?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to refrain.” Magdalena sniffed haughtily as she sidestepped around a swaying drunken man. “Someone will have to make excuses to your father for your absence.”

She left immediately after that exchange to do just that. At this point, I doubt my father was believing Magdalena’s excuses. That is, if he was even noticing we were gone. After Sebastian’s visit, he had shuffled back into his rooms, a broken man.

After we dressed, Rosalita roused just long enough for us to pepper her with questions, though they proved fruitless.

What did you see? Nothing. What did you hear? Nothing.