I wasn’t drunk. If it weren’t a sin, I would swear to the Lord on high that I wasn’t. (Let us not begin an accounting of my sins; I fear the list would be far too long to get through in one sitting.) It’s just that my love for wine is woefully unrequited. The slightest bit of it and my body rebels. The cup—or two—I had at Santiago’s is enough to make me regret ever having taken a single sip.

The tiny headache nestled at the back of my skull isn’t so bad until the maid pulls open the curtains. The sunlight pouring into my room feels like an attack of the most vicious kind. I squeeze my eyelids shut and burrow deeper down in my sheets.

“Ten more minutes,” I whine into my pillow. Already I can feel the tendrils of sleep pulling at me, beseeching me to return to my peaceful slumber. Swords and silk and steel danced in my dreams, and I would love nothing more than to return to them.

“Your father is waiting.”

The words are like a splash of cold water on my face. My muscles tense, no longer languid with sleep. I pop myself up on to my elbows and frown at her, my hair falling half in front of my face in a manner most unbecoming a lady of my stature. “What the hell did you just say?”

She meets my gaze with a cool stare. Magdalena isn’t new here. My mercurial moods do not cow her in the least.

“Don Carlos de Sonza will take breakfast with you in the solarium.” She putters about the room, tidying up after the mess I left in my wake last night. My dirty boots, bloodstained shirt, and torn breeches paint quite the vivid image of what I was up to last night. But Magdalena doesn’t bat an eyelash. A good maid never judges her mistress’s nighttime activities, no matter how salacious they may be.

My father. Waiting. I cannot remember the last time he joined us for the morning meal. Only, on the rarest and most special of occasions, does he ever break his fast with us. It is simply not done. His gout gives him such terrible grief in the mornings, it’s too painful for him to rise early, his joints too stiff and inflamed. Usually, it’s just me, Ana, and Alejandro, if he can bring himself to rise before noon.

“Why?”

Magdalena scoffs as she folds my dirty clothes across her arm. She will mend them and remove the stains if possible. They will find their way back into my closet with nary a comment. “I do not make a habit of interrogating the master of the house about his motivations, my lady.”

With a groan, I let myself flop back down onto the mattress.

This cannot be good.