My skirts whisper against the floor as I make my way to breakfast. I am no stranger to finery, but after a night spent in breeches and boots, the dress feels heavier than it truly is. Like it comes with a weight that cannot be seen, only felt.

I try to ignore the pounding in my head, but when I get to the solarium, the sun pouring in through the massive windows is an affront to every single one of my senses. It’s a battle not to squint.

My stomach roils at the smell of rich fried meats with which my father prefers to break his fast. He’s seated at the head of the table, poring over a stack of letters. His left leg is propped up on a low stool. I try not to look too closely at the ankle joint. It is swollen and red with gout. The illness has sapped the life out of him these past two years. He seems smaller, somehow. Not in size, but in presence. It is hard to believe that this is the same man who would play at being knights with me, muddying his fine boots as he swung a wooden sword about. He greets me with a jovial grunt as I slide into my seat, resisting the urge to place my head down on the table and fall back asleep.

I am not quite the last to arrive at the breakfast table. Alejandro greets me with a wave that’s entirely too cheerful considering the late hour we both arrived home and his level of inebriation. It’s unforgivable, honestly.

Ana meets my gaze across the table as I shift in my seat, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. The stays of my corset dig into those hard-won bruises from last night’s scrap at the tavern. She’s also in a dress—slightly less extravagant than mine, not because my father provides her with any less but because she can get away with it—but her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. There’s always something a little wild about her. A length of silk isn’t nearly enough to steal that from her. I wonder if beneath her dress her skin is as speckled with bruises as mine. And then I immediately try to think of anything else besides what’s under Ana’s dress.

Down that road lies madness.

She squints her eyes at me, tilting her head slightly in the direction of my father. Her expression asks the question her silence withholds.

What is going on? Why is he here?

I cannot answer her directly—and I do not know—so I do the next best thing.