But alas, I don’t have a sword. Apparently, it clashed with the emerald silk of this absurd dress. The coarse fabric of my undergarments scrapes against my skin, reminding me that I’m wearing something I have no business wearing. My lack of sword, however, doesn’t mean I’m unarmed. I slip my free hand into the pocket I cut into the dress and feel for the solid grip on the knife I have strapped to my thigh. The feel of it against my skin grounds me. That is who I am. Cold, hard steel. Not soft, delicate silk.

With my other hand, I clutch the cup of wine I’ve been nursing for the past fifteen minutes and glare at the crowd of people milling about the viceroy’s ballroom. The villa is quite possibly the grandest building in all of Potosí, second perhaps only to the bank built on the orders of the king of Spain himself.

No one approaches me. Not that anyone ever does at these things. Certain segments of society consider me fashionable but in the way a curiosity can be fashionable. Something to ooh and aah over to make them forget how miserable they all are. I’m an honest-to-God street urchin, something the vast majority of these people have only ever read about. To them, I am a cheap thrill.

But now, with the bruises still livid on my face, people keep a wide berth. I take a very generous swig of my wine—how indecent, a swig of wine and not a sip—and settle deeper into my corner. Out of respect for Kiki’s poor father, I keep to the shadows, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

I wish Rosalita were here. She’d know exactly what to say to these well-dressed buffoons. She can smile with one side of her mouth and insult you with the other without you even knowing it. It’s a skill I desperately wished I’d picked up. I’m good with my fists. Not so good with my words. Usually, my fists serve me just fine, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if I started throwing punches in the middle of the viceroy’s ball, Don Carlos de Sonza would be somewhat miffed.

The wine sours in my mouth as I watch Sebastian twirl Kiki around the dance floor. She smiles at him, but I see it for what it is. A mask. A lie. He probably does too. But everyone around them is fooled.

“What a beautiful couple,” sighs the woman beside me. Her face is so heavily powdered that she barely looks human.

I snort into my nearly empty cup before knocking the dregs of it back. I will need another one and soon if I am to survive this night without murdering one or two people. At the very least. Or maybe something harder.