The viceroy is hosting another one of his parties in a week’s time. Normally, the parties don’t bother me. I almost enjoy them, but my father seems unduly preoccupied with this one. So far, my father hasn’t said a word about it, but he likes to keep his own counsel.

Ana slips her hand into mine. My palm is sweaty, but I can blame that on the fight if I have to. Or the illness I’m apparently faking now.

“Come on,” Ana says, giving my hand a little tug as she pulls me down the street. “Let’s get this over with so we can get you home.”

I let her lead me onward, away from the heart of the city and all its violent delights. And if I hold her hand longer than is strictly necessary, well … let that be between me and God.

CHAPTER 2

Ana

Kiki’s hand in mine is worth killing for. I’d slay a thousand men to keep us in this moment, gilded by the torchlight that illuminates the cobbled streets of Potosí. In these stolen fragments of time, we are our truest selves. We bring that out in each other. Or at least she brings that out in me. I can only assume she feels the same.

I’ve always been a good judge of character, and I know what I see in Kiki. When she’s out here with me, swords at our sides, our coats trailing behind us as we stride through the twisting labyrinth of the city’s alleyways like we own them, she is so wonderfully alive.

I steal a glance at her as we walk, and just like the first time I saw her, I feel something unfurl in my chest, like a spring blossom fighting through the crust of a winter’s chill.

A small contented smile plays at the corners of her lips. The color is high in her cheeks from the fight, and it’s sinful how much willpower it takes me to not entertain other activities that might leave her with that flush on her face.

Her hair is so smooth, the reflected firelight of nearby torches dances on it as if it were water.

I am not a poetic person by nature, but there is something about Kiki that inspires in me a truly nauseating verbosity.

I’m saved from my profane thoughts by Kiki tugging on my hand. She’s frowning now, a little wrinkle marring the skin between her brows.

“Ana, look.” Kiki points to something over my shoulder.

I pivot in place, ready to be annoyed by whatever put that look on her face, but dread chases the thought away when I spy the crowd gathering at the end of the alley.