“Glad you find disagreements with my sister entertaining.” Camila held out her hand. “You’re the bee’s knees.”
“And you’re the cat’s meow.” Esmeralda licked her thumb—gross, but she’d done worse—and sizzled it into Camila’s palm.She couldn’t exactly remember why or how they had started that tradition, just like she couldn’t remember why or how Camila had decided Esmeralda was worthy of her friendship. But Esmeralda supposed that was how friendships worked. They weren’t forced; they simply were. Not that she was an expert on the matter. Esmeralda had had three close friends total throughout her nearly nineteen years, one of whom was now dead toher.
She started for the metal steps leading to the back entrance of her wagon but stopped abruptly. She blinked hard. Rubbed her eyes. Then blinked hard again.
Her eyes were not deceiving her. A black envelope was waiting on the top step. Beside it sat a box wrapped in shiny cellophane.
Her pulse began to race.
She whirled around, searching for Camila, but her friend was already lost amongst the throng of revelers in ridiculous costumes. “Drats.” She faced what lay on the step, gluing her eyes to the envelope as if it were a mirage that might melt away. Fortunately, it remained.
With a nervous squeal, she snatched up the envelope. A hand mirror framed in the familiar bell-shaped flowers had been stamped onto the parchment—the official symbol of Carnival Fantástico. She let out another squeal before grabbing the box and racing into her wagon, shutting the door behind her.
She took a deep breath.
“If it’s not an invitation, you will be okay.”
That was a lie.
“If this is a rejection, you will be fine.”
She wouldn’t.
She needed this. She needed to be chosen. To be picked. To be believed in. To be seen as worthy.
No, those things weren’t practical. What she really needed was the opportunity to earn her weight in gold coins.
Ravenously, she tore open the envelope. She tugged out an obsidian-colored card.
And her heart plummeted to her toes.
Chapter 2
Ignacio
Ignacio used to believe that everything in life could be categorized into one of two options: right or wrong. He had lived, quite rigidly, within the boundaries of what he’d been told was right by his father, a man Ignacio had idolized.
He was a perfect son. A perfect student. A perfect…everything. He listened to his father. He obeyed his teachers and leaders. He said yes to whatever they asked of him.
Until he didn’t.
The heat of the day still lingered on the stucco, warming Ignacio’s back through his coat and shirt. His fingers slid over the rough walls as he inched toward the back entrance to the staff’s kitchen. It was well past midnight. Everyone who worked in the great and powerful Comandante Olivera’s home would have fallen asleep long ago.
Ignacio turned the knob gingerly. His brows pinched together. Someone had engaged the bolt.Odd.No one ever locked this door oranydoor within the gated manor. Who would have the nerve to break into the home of the Blackbirds’ leader?
There had been only one person who had dared to try. And she was long gone, having scurried off to some country across the sea, never to return. He clenched his fists and willed his thoughts to flee far away from the girl who had run away with his heart—and his savings.
He knelt beside the planter box that flanked the door and lifted the small statue of a dove. The clay figure had been here since he was fourteen and so had the master key it concealed.
Ignacio shook his head in disappointment. The comandante was cautious enough to keep the doors locked, but he didn’t think highly enough of Ignacio’s competence to remove the key to said door.
With a sigh, Ignacio brushed the dirt off the rusted metal and slipped it into the keyhole. He eased into the familiar space.
It smelled of soap and vinegar, just like he remembered. Shiny pots still lined the walls, kept perfectly clean and hung impeccably straight like the comandante ordered. The wooden countertops were clear of clutter, and the checkered floors gleamed in the moonlight let in by the spotless windows. There wasn’t a single speck of dust within the entire space. Not even the dust’s ghost would dare remain.
Comandante Olivera often proclaimed that his home, staff, soldiers, and family were extensions of him. Therefore, they must be perfect.Alwaysperfect. As he saw himself to be.
Ignacio scowled at his boots. He should wipe the dirty soles on the rugs out of spite. But that would only get the serving staff in trouble. His qualms didn’t lie with them, only with the comandante.
