The old woman, whose name was Graciela, looked up with eyes the color of smoke. “And?”
Ana did not run. She walked. Quickly, purposefully, but not in a panic. She turned down Calle de la Luna, a narrow alley that smelled of wet clay and rotting oranges. She knew this labyrinth. She had played here as a child, when her legs were thin and her courage was a wild, untamed thing. The guards knew the main roads. They did not know the bones of this place. Corazon Valiente
“I know that too.”
“I know.”
“I need to get to the harbor. The ship to the New World leaves at dawn.” The old woman, whose name was Graciela, looked
Corazon Valiente
The sound of boots splashing through the square sent her heart into her throat. Two guards, torches hissing in the downpour, their shadows stretching like long, accusing fingers. They were looking for her. The letters detailed a conspiracy between the crown and the slavers of the eastern ports—a betrayal of the very people the king had sworn to protect. If she was caught, she would not see a trial. She would see the bottom of the river. Quickly, purposefully, but not in a panic