Valiant Ladies, page 3
Rosalita steps back with a laugh that sounds like the chime of bells. “Now that I do not believe.” She twirls around in a swirl of skirts to return to her flock of drooling men.
I watch her go, a frown creasing my brow. Kiki takes my arm, tucking it against her side.
“Come on.” She guides me out of the salon. “If we don’t get back home soon, Papa will have both our hides.”
I nod, but my gaze is pulled back to the salon. I try to steal one last glance back at Rosalita but she’s already lost to my sight.
Kiki
Dawn pushes at the edges of the horizon, smearing dusky purple light against the stars. The imposing bulk of the Sonza estate rises up against the moonlit sky, a bulwark against the chaos and the fire and the life of the city.
It is beautiful and imposing and impressive. Its luxury shrouds the truth of what it is.
A gilded prison.
There are worse ways to come into the world, I know. I have never wanted for anything in my life (almost anything). I have never known hunger or the cold cruelty of a winter’s night without warm bricks placed at the foot of my bed. But even so, the bars of that cage hold me in, like the stays of a whalebone corset digging into my sensitive flesh.
Down in the city, with a sword at my hip and Ana’s hand in mine, I feel like myself. My truest self.
I stop as we reach the crest of the hill that will lead down into the orange grove that surrounds the property. The land here isn’t really suited to oranges—they prefer much lower altitudes than Potosí—but that is one of the many things that gold can buy. Inappropriate extravagance.
See how rich our owners are, those orange trees seem to say. They have enough money and influence to grow fruit that can barely survive in this climate.
Ana’s presence in my life has made me see things that my privilege had prevented me from noticing. Before her, I had never questioned my place in this world. In this villa. In this city. In this land that belonged to others once, not to the crown. Seeing my world through her eyes has been illuminating. The orange grove is a prime example of this. I had never questioned its presence until the first time she saw it. Her eyes had widened, as if I’d opened a magical door into a world beyond her wildest imaginings.
It’s a silly thing to do. Growing oranges in the mountains. I know this. But I also know that I relished the sight of Ana taking her first sip of freshly squeezed juice. I would not have traded that sight for anything. Her eyes shone as if someone had lit a candle inside her skull. And then she’d wrinkled her nose as the tartness hit, screwing up her lips as she worked her way through the flavor. Sweet, and a little sour. Just like her.
As I am rather fond of having all my limbs attached to my body, I kept that thought to myself.
Ana draws up beside me. I squint at her in the half-light of the late hour.
“Something on your mind?”
Her voice carries on the crisp night air like birdsong, clear and resonant. Her vowels are nice and round, her consonants perfectly enunciated. If you didn’t know any better, she would sound almost as refined as I do. Over the past five years, she has worn down her street urchin accent, but it’s still there, hiding beneath the surface. It peeks out every now and then, when she’s angry or drunk or simply unfettered, enjoying herself without restraint. She wears that society accent, but it is not hers. It is not truth. It is a mask.
That is why we’re out here, skulking around in the dead of night instead of tucked into our beds like good girls. Neither of us fits quite right in the home we’ve been given, so we sneak out, searching for the things that feel right and true and good.
What I don’t tell her—what I can never ever tell her—is that the only home I know, the only home I ever want to know, is her. Not this house or its finery or its wealth. Just her.
I shrug and opt for something that’s not even a lie. “Just thinking about what Rosalita said. About girls going missing.”
I wasn’t, but now that I’ve said it, I am.
Ana nods. “I wish I could say I was surprised but…”
“But this is Potosí.” I sigh. “That sort of thing just happens, I know.”
“We’ll check in with Rosalita tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll be fine. But for now…” Ana grins at me. It’s a tired grin and a little ragged at the edges, but it’s still good. “Race you home.”
With that, she takes off, her boots sliding against the dew. I follow her, letting the rush of wind in my hair distract me from my thoughts.
She beats me to the villa, but just barely.
I’m faster than her, and we both know it. That’s why she had to cheat.
Without missing a beat, I kneel down to give her a leg up to the window we’ve left open for precisely this purpose. I hoist her up, and she climbs in. She reaches her hands out to help pull me up after her.
I collide against her as my boots slip against the marble floor, and we nearly collapse in a fit of giggles.
I’m about to shush her when a sound from outside silences me. I clap a hand over Ana’s mouth. Her breath is warm and moist against my palm.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper.
She shakes her head.
Then I hear it again.
A rustling, like there’s someone in the bushes outside. I put a finger to my lips with one hand and draw my sword with the other.
Hands appear on the window ledge a second before the bulk of a shadowy figure attempts to hoist himself up.
My blade is at the man’s throat before he can set foot inside.
“One more move and I slice your throat open like a bag of rice.”
His features are hidden, but I’d recognize his voice anywhere. “Honestly, Kiki, rice? Is that the best you’ve got?”
I have barely enough time to pull back my sword before he tumbles through the window and onto the floor in front of us. It would be remarkably bad form to gut my older brother like a pig in his own home.
Alejandro pushes himself up on unsteady legs. His dark hair tumbles across his forehead in a way I’ve heard the kitchen girls call “rakishly handsome.” His eyes gleam in the dim light as a crooked smile graces his lips. Ana says he looks a lot like me when he smiles like that, but I am convinced that it’s less charming on his face. I’m just prettier.
“You’re drunk,” I say with a sneer, as if Ana and I haven’t stumbled through that window in exactly that state more times than either of us care to admit. But if you can’t be undeservedly superior with your siblings, then, pray tell, who?
Alejandro’s lips tilt into a cheeky, sideways grin. He holds up a finger to his lips as his eyes crinkle with mirth. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He pushes himself up off his knees, brushing dirt from his breeches. “Besides, let he who is without sin cast the first stone. I’m fairly certain that’s in the Bible.”
“I’m shocked you could open the good book without bursting into flame.” There’s no fire in my words though. I don’t mean them. Alejandro is a decent man and an even better brother. Even if he does like to indulge a touch too much in the fine arts of spirits and wine. Stones. Sin. He’s not wrong.
Alejandro starts walking down the hallway toward his own rooms in what couldn’t be called a straight line even if you squinted in absolute darkness. His shoulder bumps into a vase that he only just barely manages to catch before it shatters on the ground, alerting every soul in the house to our presence. He sets it right, shooting me a sanctimonious look. “I’ll have you know I take the word of God very seriously.”
He hiccups before disappearing around a corner.
“And to think,” Ana mutters, “that’s the man who’s going to inherit all of this.”
The words sting though I know she didn’t mean for them to. As a woman, I am only entitled to what my father’s generosity grants me. And after him, my husband.
With a weary sigh, Ana begins tugging me toward our own rooms.
I will never marry.
The thought flits through my mind, an erratic little fly, buzzing about, begging for my attention. I’m tempted to let it stay, but it’s too dangerous. Too seductive. I swat it away.
“Oh, to have been born a man,” I say, though I don’t really mean it. Life is what you make of it, and I happen to like the one I’ve made for myself with Ana. That’s the thought I think I’ll let warm me as I crawl into my own bed, with nothing but a wall between us.
CHAPTER 3
Ana
Normally, when I’ve had a generous amount of wine—which I have had, thank you very much—I don’t dream. My sleep is solid and thick. Undisturbed. I like it better that way. I like it when I close my eyes with the moon in the sky and open them with the sun in its place.
But tonight is different. Tonight, dreams come to me in the form of memories. At least it’s one of my favorite memories.
The memory of the first time Kiki and I met.
The dream has that fuzzy quality all dreams do. Some details are crisp, but others are hazy around the edges, half-forgotten.
I remember the taste of the apple—stolen, of course—as I bit into it, watching the display before me, partially hidden by an alcove in one of the seedier alleys in Potosí. I had swiped the apple from a stall in the market. The man who owned it was an asshole who beat his family, so I didn’t feel any guilt about the theft. I tried to only steal from people who deserved it. Not people who were down on their luck. I knew what it felt like to go hungry. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
But the clearest detail in the dream was what Kiki looked like.
A shorter version of the young woman she was now, but no less grand for it.
Thick as a brick considering the mess she got herself into, but a pretty little thing. Glossy hair as black as tar. Skin the color of cream. And dressed like she wanted to skip through town screaming, “Steal it all! Everything must go!”
Rich girls. More money than sense, the lot of ’em.
“You lost?” The words came out around a mouthful of masticated apple.
The girl jumped at the sound of my voice. She hadn’t noticed me standing there, not five feet away from her.
Like I said, thick as a brick. She wouldn’t last long in this town. I gave her an hour, tops.
She blinked at me, visibly wrestling back her composure from wherever it had fled. “No.”
I snorted. I knew a lie when I smelled one. “You sure about that? Because you look lost.”
She frowned. I took another bite of the apple, the sound of the crunch loud despite the ambient din of Potosí at night.
The girl stiffened. “What’s wrong with the way I look?”
I’m sure she thought she looked like she’d blend in down here. Black riding boots. A pair of thick woolen breeches. A dark cloak the same blue of the sky at midnight. But it was all too new. Too shiny. Too rich.
“Nothing, princesa. Just can’t believe you made it this far without someone killing you for those boots. Or that cloak. Or that sword. Or that pouch of coin at your hip.”
Her hand shot toward the pouch tucked into the waistband of her breeches. It was concealed by the cloak, but I knew it was there all the same.
“How did you—?”
“You jingle like the carts rolling away from the mint.”
Her frown deepened as she studied me. “Are you going to rob me?”
Maybe she was cleverer than she looked.
I shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
That made me laugh. It was the first time she’d done so, but it wouldn’t be the last. “What on earth brings a girl like you to a place like this?”
I gestured at our surroundings. The alley we were in was sandwiched between a brothel and a gambling hall, neither of which catered to the sort of person who could afford even a single thing she was wearing.
She shrugged one shoulder, and I could tell that she wanted it to come across as casual. It didn’t. “I wanted to see Potosí. The real Potosí.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her. “Is it everything you dreamed?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but she didn’t get the chance. Another voice sounded from the mouth of the alley. Male. Dark. Uneven. Colored with drink. And with crueler intentions than mine. I remember the sound of that voice well, too. In a way, he was responsible for everything that came after.
“Well, well, look what we have here.”
I chucked the remainder of the apple over my shoulder and turned to see the man—no, men—standing behind us, blocking the end of the street. They were not the sort of people you wanted to run into in a dark alley, that was for damn sure. Even from a distance, I could smell the man who had spoken. Sweat and stale beer. That smell stayed with me too.
He smiled, revealing a mouth with more teeth missing than present. “Looks like we got two for one, boys.”
The men at his back chuckled in that way of men who mean no good.
I kicked away from the wall and reached for my knife. It was a simple kitchen tool, a world apart from the shiny new sword the girl who did not belong here carried, too dull even to gleam in the moonlight, but sharp. And sharp is what does the trick.
I shot the girl a look. I thought I knew what I would see in her face. Fear. But instead I saw something that surprised me. Glee. Anticipation. And a steely determination I hadn’t expected. Her hands shook as she reached for her sword, but only slightly. It made her more interesting than she had been seconds ago.
The men came toward us, moving as an undisciplined unit. I spared her a quick glance. “Hope you know how to use that pigsticker, princesa.”
She shot me a look that was as sharp as that sword. “Baronesa, technically. Well, almost.”
“Huh.” I twirled my knife as I watched the man approach. He thought we were easy prey. Two girls. Children, really. She might have been, but I damn well wasn’t. “If we live through this, you’ll have to tell me how the daughter of a baron wound up in a place like this.”
“Deal.”
“What’s your name, by the way? Just in case I have to inform your loved ones of your sudden death at the hand of drunken assholes.”
She smiled, sharp and vicious. “My name is Eustaquia de Sonza, daughter of the Barón de Sonza. First of her name.”
With that, she charged, sword aloft, straight at them. Straight at four men twice her size and drunk as rats drowning in a barrel of ale. Straight into the arms of certain death.
And somehow, she did not die.
The fight goes fuzzy in the dream. The details of it aren’t important. What was important were the nights that followed. I waited for her in the same spot, in that alcove. Without fail, she came by again and again. We would run amok, looking for trouble and causing it when we didn’t find it. On one such night, she invited me to her house. And then, I never left.
The dream fades as I roll over in bed, mostly still asleep, but with a smile on my lips. I liked that memory because that was it, really. The moment I knew.
I, Ana Lezama de Urinza, was in love.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Kiki
My head aches only a little when I wake up, but it’s enough to make me wish I was still asleep.
I wasn’t drunk. If it weren’t a sin, I would swear to the Lord on high that I wasn’t. (Let us not begin an accounting of my sins; I fear the list would be far too long to get through in one sitting.) It’s just that my love for wine is woefully unrequited. The slightest bit of it and my body rebels. The cup—or two—I had at Santiago’s is enough to make me regret ever having taken a single sip.
The tiny headache nestled at the back of my skull isn’t so bad until the maid pulls open the curtains. The sunlight pouring into my room feels like an attack of the most vicious kind. I squeeze my eyelids shut and burrow deeper down in my sheets.
“Ten more minutes,” I whine into my pillow. Already I can feel the tendrils of sleep pulling at me, beseeching me to return to my peaceful slumber. Swords and silk and steel danced in my dreams, and I would love nothing more than to return to them.
“Your father is waiting.”
The words are like a splash of cold water on my face. My muscles tense, no longer languid with sleep. I pop myself up on to my elbows and frown at her, my hair falling half in front of my face in a manner most unbecoming a lady of my stature. “What the hell did you just say?”
She meets my gaze with a cool stare. Magdalena isn’t new here. My mercurial moods do not cow her in the least.
“Don Carlos de Sonza will take breakfast with you in the solarium.” She putters about the room, tidying up after the mess I left in my wake last night. My dirty boots, bloodstained shirt, and torn breeches paint quite the vivid image of what I was up to last night. But Magdalena doesn’t bat an eyelash. A good maid never judges her mistress’s nighttime activities, no matter how salacious they may be.
My father. Waiting. I cannot remember the last time he joined us for the morning meal. Only, on the rarest and most special of occasions, does he ever break his fast with us. It is simply not done. His gout gives him such terrible grief in the mornings, it’s too painful for him to rise early, his joints too stiff and inflamed. Usually, it’s just me, Ana, and Alejandro, if he can bring himself to rise before noon.
“Why?”
Magdalena scoffs as she folds my dirty clothes across her arm. She will mend them and remove the stains if possible. They will find their way back into my closet with nary a comment. “I do not make a habit of interrogating the master of the house about his motivations, my lady.”
With a groan, I let myself flop back down onto the mattress.
This cannot be good.
I have a feeling I know what it is, but I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever.
Like a coward, I hide under my sheets, listening to the sound of Magdalena flitting through my room. The doors of the wardrobe creak open—the hinges will need oiling soon—and a rustle of heavy fabrics follows.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.” Magdalena’s voice is not the least bit sympathetic.
