She nods, but her gaze drifts away, over my shoulder. I follow the line of her sight to find Rosalita drifting away, her black dress—one I gave her for this occasion—stark against the gray light of day. “Do you mind if I talk to Rosalita for a moment?”

“Of course not.”

She hesitates, as if weighing something in her mind. Then, she leans in and presses the gentlest of kisses to my cheek. Right here, in the light of day, on sacred ground, in front of God and his Church.

I watch as she follows Rosalita, lays a hand on her arm. They move to a nearby tree for a modicum of cover from the misting rain.

My father and I stand by the grave, the rich brown earth a contrast to the verdant grass beside it.

“I owe you an apology.” His voice is low and quiet, but steady. His eyes are riveted to the grave still, as if through sheer force of will he could resurrect his son.

“Papa, you don’t have—”

“I do.” He turns to look at me then, grizzled brows drawn. There is a surety to his expression that I have not seen in quite some time. “I was wrong. I should have listened to you, and I didn’t. If I had, perhaps—” He sighs, rubbing a hand against his closed eyelids. “I could have done more. I could have helped you. But I left you and Ana to fight alone against a pack of wolves.”

“We handled them well enough, I should say.”

“You nearly died.”

I breathe steadily. “I know.”

My father shakes his head, tightening one hand on the head of his cane. “I could not bear losing you, Eustaquia—”

“Kiki.”

That earns me a small, tired smile. For the first time in weeks, he looks like my father again.

“Indeed. Kiki. You are exactly who you mean to be. And from now on, I will do better to honor that.”

“I—thank you, Papa.”

And, as if I were still a little girl, I throw my arms around him and we embrace. That pipe-smoke scent I always think of as his envelops me in its warmth.

“I’m so proud of you, Kiki. And I know Alejandro would be too.”

For the first time today, it is not grief that makes tears well up in my eyes but love.

Ana

Rosalita cuts a striking figure in her mourning gown. It is the finest in Kiki’s collection, freshly dyed black to suit the occasion. When Kiki had presented it to her, Rosalita had attempted to demure, but it took a handful of words to accept.

“It was a gift,” Kiki said. “From my brother. He picked it out himself the last time he was in Paris. And I want you to have it.”