The villa looks bleaker than it normally does as I walk back. Its bulk stands against the cloudless sky, foreboding. The thought of heading back into that house, of seeing my brother and father again, makes my stomach churn. I don’t know what I’ll find on their faces. Disappointment at my childish antics? Or worse, pity? Either way, I want no part of it.

Catching the curious glance of a pair of maids beating a carpet out on the courtyard behind the kitchens, I ball fistfuls of skirt in my hands and change course, slippers pounding against the dry earth. My attire is incredibly ill-suited for the stables, but that is where I’m heading. I need to remind myself what freedom feels like, and there is no greater approximation than the sensation of wind in my hair as a horse gallops beneath me.

I smell the stables before I round the corner and see them. The scent of hay and horse fills my nostrils like a balm to my soul. The stables are mercifully devoid of anyone who would dare bring up the subject of my marriage. A groom dips his head in acknowledgment as I enter. He eyes my gown and my inadequate footwear.

Voice dubious, he asks, “Would you like me to tack up your horse, mistress?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself. A moment alone, if you don’t mind.”

And of course, he does not mind. With another dip of his head, he sets down the leather saddle he was carefully conditioning and departs, slinging the oil-stained rag over his shoulder. Once he’s gone, I sag. I hadn’t even realized my posture straightened when I caught sight of him.

A lady of the house must always carry herself with dignity.

The words belong to my old governess, the one who raised me in the absence of my mother, God rest her soul. She died when I was a mere infant, carted away by an illness that had rampaged through Potosí, claiming the lives of peasants and gentry alike. I was too young to have formed my own memories of her. All I have are the ones passed down to me by my father. Spirited was the word he most often used to describe her. Just like you, mija. I wonder what she would say now. If she would push me into Sebastian’s waiting arms or laugh at the thought of marrying her only daughter off to a boy with more money than sense. But none of that matters, I suppose. She is long dead, having taken her opinions on the subject of a woman’s fate with her to the grave.