Beside me, Alejandro nudges me with his elbow. “Are you all right?”

My eyes open to slits, just wide enough for my glare to get through. A wry smile touches his lips. He checks to make sure my father’s face is still buried in a stack of papers before reaching into his pocket. When his hand emerges, it’s holding a small silver flask. He wiggles it in my direction in a wordless offer of liquid courage.

I shake my head.

“Suit yourself.” He unscrews the cap and takes a swig.

My father chooses the moment to look up. He sets the papers down on his lap with a disapproving huff. Shaking his head, he removes his spectacles and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, Alejandro.”

Smiling, my brother wipes at his lips with the back of his hand. “What?” He holds the flask out to our father. “You want a sip?”

My father snorts, setting the spectacles back on his nose. “From the way you lot act you’d think I was raising a traveling carnival.”

The horses slow as we climb up the path leading to the viceroy’s villa. It’s the grandest in all of Potosí. It also sits at the highest elevation of all the noble residences. He’s not a subtle man, the viceroy.

The carriage rolls to a shuddering stop. I don’t know if it’s just me or if the air is actually thinner up here, the way it’s said to be high up on the mountain, but suddenly, I find it terribly hard to breathe.

Ana drops the book onto her seat and spills out of the carriage before the coachman can even get a hand on the door. She moves so fast that all I see is the fabric of her gown fluttering after her like a peacock’s dragging tail.

My father blinks after her, his graying brows furrowing slowly. He’s a quiet man by nature, but now there’s an astute quality to his silence that worries me. When his gaze slides to me, it’s a little too knowing for comfort.

“I know you think I never notice what happens in my own home.”

As one, Alejandro and I tense. We aren’t bad children, per se. Well, we aren’t the best, but we love our father. We respect him. At society gatherings, our behavior is beyond reproach. But we aren’t exactly what my father envisioned, I am sure.

“But be honest with me, mija.” My father wipes his spectacles with a square of fabric that perfectly matches the black and golden tones of his chosen outfit for the evening. “Should I worry about tonight?”

The question is worded vaguely enough that I don’t have to lie to respond to it. “Whatever do you mean, Papa?”