“I’m sorry,” she’d said, shaking her head sadly. Then, wincing. “Someone struck me from behind and I woke up in that cellar. A man asked me all sorts of questions about Alejandro, but I didn’t know anything of use.”

I told her it was fine. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. But that leaves us with no more information than we had earlier.

“Does this wine taste sour to you?” Frowning, I swirl the thick, red liquid around the cup. It does smell a touch foul. And considering how generally low my standards for drinkable wine are, that’s saying something.

“It tastes fine to me,” Ana says, taking another hearty swig. But I can see the moment the faintly peaty aftertaste hits. Her lips curl in a grimace. “Well … maybe fine is a bit of an exaggeration. It’s drinkable.” Another sip. Another grimace. “Mostly.”

I smile fondly at her. This scenario has played over many times. I complain about the quality of the booze. She mocks me for my aristocratic palate. So on and so forth.

Her cup comes to rest on the table with a dull thud. She cants her head to the side as she studies me.

The soft smile fades from my lips.

I hate it when she looks at me like that. Like she can read all the thoughts marching through my head as joyfully as I can read what she lovingly calls that damn Cervantes novel for the fiftieth time. Heat rises in my cheeks though the warmth of the tavern and the dim lighting is probably enough to mask it. Probably.

“I don’t think it’s the wine that’s the problem,” Ana says.

I let my eyebrows ask the question: “Then what is?”

She blinks. A long moment passes between us. The group of patrons clustered around the table by the hearth breaks out into a bawdy drinking song, mangling the lyrics something terrible in their drunken state. Somewhere, someone drops a glass bottle, shattering it against the floor. Ana opens her mouth once. Then closes it. Opens it again. Closes it again.

She shakes her head as her gaze slides away from mine. Her copper waves fall across the side of her face I can see, hiding her eyes from view. She is an expert in this move. Using her features to hide when she does not wish to be seen. Normally, this skill isn’t directed at me.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m being silly.”

Wordlessly, I sip at my own foul wine. It tastes even worse this time around.

“No.” I force myself to swallow the wretched brew. “It’s definitely the wine.”

“Do you feel,” Ana begins, her eyes roaming over the crowd of drunks and gamblers, “that we’ve won a battle but maybe…”

“We’re not winning the war?”

She turns back to me. Nods.

“Perhaps,” I say. “But I’m glad we won this round.”