A door opens somewhere deep in shadow. Light spills through the opening, piercing the black with a soft amber glow. The coachman enters, a lantern held high. Two figures trail behind him. One I recognize immediately as the goddamn archbishop of Peru, but the identity of the second person is obscured by a dark hooded cloak. I knew these assholes had friends in high places, but damn. The archbishop. That’s almost impressive.

“You’re late,” Cristobal says, voice oddly flat. There is no emotion to it at all.

“You’re lucky I’m here at all.” The archbishop’s gaze skitters across the motley group gathered before him. His tone is carefully sniping, but judging from the white-knuckled grip he has on the leather-bound books clutched to chest, he’s as scared shitless as I am.

“And you’re lucky I keep my mouth shut when it comes to your, shall we say, proclivities,” Cristobal counters. “Though if you would rather have no part in these proceedings, I’m sure Rome would love to hear of your little … experiments.”

Kiki pulls her eyes from Cristobal and glares at the archbishop. I’m pretty sure this is the same man who baptized her as an infant. And now, here he is, ready to marry her off under the watchful eye—and at the direction of—a sadistic murderer. “What experiments?”

His face blanches. Cristobal chuckles.

“Trust me,” Cristobal says, “the less you know of that, the better. Such details are unfit for a lady’s ears.”

The cloaked figure, a woman by the shape of her, carries a bundle of white fabric in her arms. She approaches us, and there is something familiar about her gait.

She unties Kiki’s hands so she can slip the bundle of cloth over her head. It’s a white shift of delicate lace. “Isn’t that better, dear?”

The ground feels like it cracks open beneath my feet. I know that voice. I know that woman.

She saved my life, once upon a time. I hated her, and I loved her in equal measure. I would be dead without her. And now, I might die because of her.

“Esmeralda?”

Hands rise up to push back the cloak, carefully negotiating the fabric around the elaborate curls of her hair. She smiles at me, the same as she ever did.

“Hello, mija.”

It’s that last word that breaks something inside of me. Daughter. She started calling me that after she pulled me from the flames. After she cast the woman who birthed me onto the street.

“Every wedding needs a woman’s touch,” Cristobal says lightly, as if this is all a game to him. She brought the dress, but that’s not the only reason she’s here, I realize. The thing that sick bastard loves most is pain. And this … this hurts.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”