I blink at him. This is news to me. The older members of our household still reminisce about the love between my father and mother.

“Love is a seed, Eustaquia. To grow, it must be nurtured.”

I sink my teeth into the skin of my cheek. “What if I don’t want to?”

His eyes are so kind, I want to scream. “Keep your heart open. That is all I suggest. It’s not easy for a woman alone in this world.”

“I just—” I bite off my words in frustration. “You raised me to wield a sword, and now you’re expecting me to drop it to become someone’s wife.”

He shakes his head. “Wield your sword all you like, mija. But maybe, just maybe, he can be your shield.”

With that, he turns back toward the stables, the thud of his cane echoing in the courtyard with every step.

I bristle at the words all the way back to my rooms. The thought that Sebastian would be pleased with a wife who dons men’s clothing and gambles and fights her way through the rough streets of Potosí is laughable. He may seem kinder, more accepting of my eccentricities than his father, but he is cut from the same block. I stomp up the stairs, displeased with how soft my footfalls sound in these godforsaken slippers.

There is a sound coming from the opposite side of my door that gives me pause. I wait, my hand on the gilded knob, listening.

Sobs. Deep and wretched.

“Ana?” I’m through the door before I get a reply. I have never heard Ana cry like that. I don’t know if she has it in her. And even if she did, why would she be doing it in my room?

Magdalena’s head shoots up as I barrel into the room. Magdalena. Not Ana.

She is sitting at my vanity—peculiar in and of itself for a maid—and clutching a crumpled piece of paper in her hands.

“Mistress.” She wipes hastily at her tears, her fists white-knuckled around the note. “I’m so sorry. I thought—I didn’t realize—”

“Magdalena, what on earth happened?”

She is so distraught, it knocks every other thought out of my head. I rush to her side, taking her slim shoulders in my hands. Though she’s trying valiantly not to cry, her arms tremble with the weight of her tears. She tries to stand, to brush me off, but I hold her tight. She sags against me, another sob racking her body. We stay like that until her sobs subside. As she pulls away from me, her eyes widen when she sees the state I’m in. Dress soiled. Hair askew.

“Your dress—”

“Never mind the dress. What happened?”

With a wet sniffle, she holds the letter out to me. “I’ve just received word. My cousin—she—”