“This will pass.” Rosalita’s voice is pitched low and careful, the same tone she used to use when she told me bedtime stories at night, the times I’d crawl into her cramped cot when it was too cold to sleep in the kitchens after the embers finally died in the hearth. “You’ll recover from this. You’ll heal.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it. But it’s a nice lie. A comforting one. And for that, I’m grateful.

I turn my battered face into the pillow and breathe. It smells like Rosalita. Like jasmine and perfume and a faint hint of Doña Esmeralda’s palo santo. It smells like a home I left, a long time ago. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for death. In lieu of that, I settle for sleep.

CHAPTER 9

Kiki

Tati’s was a dead end.

It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got back to the villa. It’s been three days since I went into town to ask after Magdalena’s cousin, but I am none the wiser about what happened to Juana than I was three days ago.

I worried the question of what happened to her and why between my teeth during every meal. My father stopped calling out my distraction after realizing all he was getting in return were wordless grunts. I mulled it over as Magdalena selected a dress for me to wear tonight when I showed complete and utter disinterest in doing so myself.

“It’s too important an evening for you to be so disinterested.” She clucked. She had thrown herself into her duties as her own method of distraction from Juana’s fate. In a way, she was right. Tonight was the viceroy’s ball. Tonight, Sebastian and I would be formally presented as a soon-to-be married couple to the movers and shakers of Potosí. But none of it seemed to matter. People—women—were disappearing. Probably dying. What were my petty problems compared to that? I was still puzzling through the possibilities as Father herded us toward the carriage waiting to ferry us to the viceroy’s villa.

The worst thing is that no one seemed to know anything that would have illuminated the unfortunate situation. Apparently, Juana had only just started working there and no one really knew her. Her death, while tragic, seemed to impact them so very little. All I know is that she was not the first. Three girls had gone missing from the brothel in the past three months. Missing, and most likely dead.

“Bad for business” was all Tati herself had said. She was a wizened old woman, as thin as a reed and as mean as a stray cat. “About as bad as you coming ’round here to ask about it. Unless you plan on dropping coin, get out.”