We slow as we reach the city gates, Rocinante’s hooves crunching over gravel roads instead of hard-packed dirt. The city guards barely glance at me. I am a familiar sight. A noble girl in a men’s frock coat, sitting astride a stallion finer than any they will ever ride. I tend to my business, and they tend to theirs. Normally, I would pass by without uttering a single word. Today, I alter that pattern, tipping my hat in the direction of the nearest guard.

“Sir,” I say, trying to inject both sweetness and authority into my voice. It is a tricky—nay, impossible—balance to strike.

The guard lifts his chin to meet my gaze. He takes in my attire. The fine boots. The plush dyed wool of the coat. The shining coat of my steed.

“What do you want?”

“A moment of your time, if you can spare it.”

He glances at his partner. Spits on the ground. Shrugs. “Make it quick.”

“Is the city guard investigating the recent murders of young women?”

His facial expression fails to change in the slightest. “Murders? In Potosí? You don’t say.”

His partner chuckles as they knock elbows together. It takes every ounce of my God-given strength not to roll my eyes.

“Is that a no, then?”

He snorts. “Girls die every day in Potosí. Who cares?”

My hands tighten on the reins. The leather digs into my palms. The pain grounds me. “I do.”

The guard waves me off as a cart rolls up to the gates behind me. “Don’t know what you’re on about. Now get moving. We’ve got a job to do.”

“Not guarding the city evidently.” I dig my heels into Rocinante’s sides before the guard has a chance to respond. What is the death of another poor soul? What is the life of a woman born in poverty worth? To them, nothing.

The city path diverges before me. Rocinante snorts, tossing his head and tugging on the reins in his impatience. His is not a beast for standing still.

If I turn Rocinante’s head to the left, the road will lead us to the brothel district. If I am investigating the murder of a woman of the night, it would be the most logical place to start.

But it is also where I am nearly positive Ana would be. We haven’t spoken since the orange grove. Have not even locked eyes.

Rocinante paws at the ground, shuffling his weight.

“Fine,” I tell him, patting the side of his neck. I turn his head to the right, away from the brothels and Esmeralda’s and Ana and toward Santiago.

It’s not a cowardly decision.

(It is.)

If there is anyone in Potosí who knows the latest news and gossip, it is Santiago. And so, Rocinante and I make our way to his tavern.