With trembling arms, she pushes herself to stand, keeping wisely just out of reach of my blade. I watch her stand, our eyes connected.

She needs this. Needs to stand on her own two feet, under her own power. She needs to know that she can.

“Yield,” I say again, stepping forward. The blade of my sword presses against her throat. Not hard enough to draw blood. (I would never hurt her, not like this, not ever.)

She stares me down, that spark building and building until I see that flame ignite.

“Never.”

Kiki

If it were possible for me to hate Ana, even a little bit, I would hate her. But it is not. And so, I don’t. Not even a little bit.

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to stand. It hurts to exist. But it’s a good kind of hurt. Not the bad kind. Not the kind that has laid over me like a shroud for days. Since the ball. Since Alejandro. Since my world fractured into a million tiny pieces that I fear I will never be able to pick up and reconfigure into something approaching normalcy.

Sweat drips down my brow. I wipe at it with my shirtsleeve, feeling the fabric pull away from my sticky skin with the motion. I don’t know how long we sparred. All I know is that I needed it. I needed to move. To fight. To feel, even if only for a fleeting moment, like myself once more.

I watch as Ana hangs up both our swords—my arms are too shattered to even try to pick up mine—and fills a cup of water from the jug on the table by the rack. Only then do I realize that my throat is absolutely parched.

“Thank you,” I say as she hands me the cup. I down it in a rapid succession of unladylike gulps.

I am not talking about the water. Judging by the knowing look that flits across her face, she is well aware.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Her expression is carefully guarded. It is so unlike her, it nearly makes me forget that I am so thirsty that I have half a mind to pour the entire jug of water down my gullet in one go.

“What is it?” My hands tighten around the cup. I do not know if I can handle one more morsel of bad news. My cup is already overfull.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Ana begins. Again, so unlike her to hedge her words. Normally, she wears her feelings on her sleeve, for anyone to see. She is not careful or circumspect. It is not in her nature.

“Whatever it is, just spit it out, Ana.”

“Alejandro didn’t kill himself.”

The mention of his name, breathed aloud into the air, feels like another blow, this one right below the sternum. I have not spoken his name out loud myself. I could not bear to do so. Not when I knew it would go unanswered forever more.