All of this feels right and good and true. This is as our lives were always meant to be. And always will be now. There is no marriage looming on the horizon. Sebastian survived the blast but his reputation didn’t. Even if my father hadn’t broken the betrothal as soon as he learned of what happened in the church, Sebastian himself had been shipped back to the continent in disgrace, removed from his own father’s line of succession. It’s too good a fate for him. I would much rather he were dead or rotting in a jail cell with all the best and brightest of Potosí, but money still talks louder than justice.

At least I made a lasting impression. He will think of me every time he looks in the mirror and sees his scarred visage staring back at him. It will be a warning for him. You have been marked, that scar will say. You are being watched. Put one foot wrong and not even an ocean between us will stop me from reacquainting you with my blade.

I know that this is what his reflection will say because that is exactly what I said to him when Ana and I showed up to see him off at the docks. Was it petty? Absolutely. But he is lucky to still be alive. He is the reason my brother was killed. The least he deserves is my pettiness.

“I’m hungry,” Ana mumbles into my neck. Her lips tickle, making me squirm in her embrace.

As if summoned by some dark magic, Magdalena throws the door to my bedchamber open and sweeps into the room, arms laden with a silver tray. “Breakfast, my lady.”

She doesn’t bat an eye to see Ana and I curled up together. She’s one of the few people who knows the full story. I trusted her with the truth, all of it. She and her cousin exchange letters weekly now. Juana—Sister Catalina, rather—even sends her drawings. Beautiful landscapes and towering cities full of silver and hope.

“Oh, food.” Ana pushes away from me with an insulting amount of alacrity.

I push myself to rise with far more grace. “So is that where I stand with you? Second to a plate of eggs and a rasher of bacon?”

Ana’s mouth is already full with a massive bite of buttered bread. “Yes, but”—she swallows thickly—“you’re a very close second.”

Rolling her eyes, Magdalena places the tray—minus the bread Ana swiped—on the bedside table. She brought everything. Bacon. Eggs. Freshly baked bread and butter. A glass bowl full of grapes. Even a carafe of the bitter bean juice Ana has taken a liking to. Coffee. It isn’t for me, but it makes her happy, so I shall tolerate its pungency.

But there’s something else on the tray far more interesting than anything else.

A scroll, sealed with a dark blue ribbon.