His head hits the ground first.

Raphael looks up, eyes watering, blood pooling in his mouth, bruised throat shuddering as it dilates with each trembling inhale-exhale.

Sébastien. He has to get away, he thinks, tears refracting the light from the doorway into thousands of glittering orange shards, Sébastien’s voice carrying beneath the ringing in Rapha’s ears, low and flaming.

He places his hands into the cool, damp earth and pushes himself to his knees, beginning to crawl.

The first thing Sara notices is how little clothes Raphael is wearing. The second is the blood.

“Rapha?” She calls out, flinging open her window as the dog barks at his return. “What happened?”

Rapha says nothing, his figure grasping the doorframe to catch himself as he struggles to stand. Lupe growls, snapping and straining against his leash.

Sara meets him on the porch, barefoot, raising a hand to silence Lupe, who opens his mouth and finds himself barkless, ribbon trailing from her wrist like a reddened serpent. She places her arm around Raphael, and carries him inside, to where the stove is still warm, and places him on a chair in the corner.

“Sara…” he whispers.

“Drink first,” Sara says, placing a cup before him.

Rapha brings his head close to the table, not quite trusting his arms to not give out enough to bring it to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out as he takes a small sip.

She sighs from the kitchen, preparing a washbasin of cool water and antiseptic. “It’s not your fault, Rapha. Blanca should have come with you.”

Raphael closes his eyes, throat too wrecked to wince when Sara places the cloth to his bloodied body, head too heavy to turn away. Very rarely does he hate this body, save for times like these, where his chest blooms like a prison and bleeds like a prisoner.

“I knew Rosa was sick,” he says, “Blanca needed to stay. There can’t only be one girl in the house.”

“No,” Sara says. “She goes with you. No negotiation.”

Rapha exhales slowly. Señora Blanca is not a cruel madam, not in the slightest. She forbids the girls to be on their own in the house for their own safety. She shuts the rooms at 4am sharp, and keeps them all well-fed, well-rested, clean and healthy.

When Rapha had said his new name in the light, only three years after he had begun to work at The Three Soldiers, he was sure he was going to be turned out, and left workless, for where was a former Soldier girl to work beside from the street, where men could do to him as they liked, and pay only in the lack of injury?

He was taken off the floor, as he had expected, and solely did house calls. They may have been riskier, but Blanca never let him go alone, and they paid triple that which he had made working in the house, for there was a novelty to it, and to put it lightly, his clientele paid to cover their curiosity.

“She knows Sebastien is banned after what he did to Rosa,” Sara says, voice thick with frustration. Rosa’s arm had never really healed, and infections came back in waves that Sara’s magic could never fully bury. “And she let you do a house-call unaccompanied?”

Raphael looks at her then. “I owed him. Off the books. Blanca doesn’t know.”

Sébastien closed the door behind him. Rapha kept his back straight anyway.

“You came alone,” Sébastien said. His voice was lighter than Rapha remembered.

“You asked me to,” Rapha replied.

“Yes,” Sébastien agreed. “I did.”

Rapha let his eyes adjust to the dimness; shutters half-drawn, a single lamp burning low. There was a chair in the center of the room. He didn’t sit.

“You owe me,” Sébastien continued, stepping closer. “You know that.”

Rapha stayed quiet.

“You stepped into a situation that was not your business."

“You were going to kill her,” Rapha corrected quietly, but not quiet enough.

“You fucked me up good,” Sébastien said, “and yet, you walked out of the Three Soldiers untouched.”

Rapha didn’t answer. Rosa hadn’t, and that was what mattered.

Sébastien tilted his head. “That place is crawling with my men, Rapha. They were going to kill you for even touching me. I didn’t let them. You owe me.”

Rapha’s jaw tightened. “You hurt Rosa. She didn’t deserve that,” he said.

“No,” Sébastien agreed easily. “She didn’t. But you?” Sébastien’s gaze dragged slowly over him. “You made a choice.”

Rapha held his ground. “I did,” he says.

“And choices have prices.”

Sébastien gestured toward the chair.

“Sit.”

Rapha didn’t move.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Rapha crossed the room and sat. The wood was cold even through the muggy heat of the evening. His hands rested on his knees, steady by sheet force of will.

Sébastien circled him, slow, deliberate. “Do you remember,” he says, “how it used to be?”

Rapha stared straight ahead. “I don’t work the floor anymore.”

“No. You don’t.” A hand landed on his shoulder. “Stand up.”

Rapha did.

“Good. You still listen.” Sébastien stepped back toward the chair, seating himself. “Kneel.”

Rapha didn’t move this time. “I don’t do that.”

Sébastien exhaled through his nose. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not,” Rapha said. “I’ll settle it. Just not like that.”

“Not like that,” Sébastien repeated, a humorless laugh escaping him. “You think you get to choose the terms?”

“No,” Rapha said, firmer now. “I’m not–”

Sébastien’s hand came fast, closing around his throat and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. Rapha gasped, the air knocked clean out of him.

“There it is,” Sébastien murmured, stepping in close. “That tone.” His grip tightened. “You think,” heaving now, “you’ve become something else.”

Rapha’s fingers came up instinctively, but fell short of clawing at it. He would not afford Sébastien that slippage. “I am something else,” he forced out.

“Say that again.”

Rapha met his eyes. “I am not one of your girls.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. And then all breath left him, shuddering and crushed and twisted.

“You were,” he said softly. “You are.” Sébastien’s thumb pressed into his throat, right where the bruises have begun to stain. “On your knees,” he said again.

Rapha shook his head. The first blow landed to his ribs. Rapha folded with it, the air driven out again as his back hit the floor. He tasted blood almost immediately.

“Don’t,” Sébastien said, crouching over him, “make this worse.”

Rapha coughed, turning his head, trying to drag in air through a throat that wouldn’t quite open.

“I came,” he managed. “That’s the debt.”

Rapha curled in on himself, arms instinctively trying to shield what he can.

“I won’t—”

The boot caught his side before he could finish.

“You will.”

Rapha didn’t answer that time, pushing himself up instead. That seemed to irritate Sébastien more than refusal.

“Stay down.”

Rapha didn’t. He got one knee under him, then the other. His vision swam, room tilting at the edges.

“I said,” Sébastien snapped, reaching again for Rapha’s throat.

This time, Rapha jerked back, not fast enough to avoid it entirely, but enough that his hand slipped, fingers digging into the side of his neck instead of closing clean. It was enough. The door was only a few steps away. A hand caught the back of Rapha’s shirt, yanking him off balance. His head cracked against the edge of the table on the way down. Sound dropped out. For a second, he didn’t feel anything at all. Then everything came back at once. Somewhere above him, Sébastien spoke again, but the words blurred, stretched, dissolved into tone and cadence.

Rapha did not wait to understand.

He rolled, fingers slipping against the floor before finding purchase. He did not remember opening the door; only the sudden rush of cold air, the ground rising up too fast…and then nothing but impact.

Sara pushes the door open with her shoulder, Raphael leaning heavily against her side. He walks under his own power, but only just. Each step is careful, measured, like he’s afraid his legs might give out.

Rosa is propped up on pillows, framed in pink silk and angled slightly so that her arm juts out from her side like a bird’s wing. Her eyes widen when she sees him. “Rapha…”

He tries to smile. It comes out crooked. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you lost a bullfight."

“Would’ve been kinder,” Raphael murmurs.

Sara clicks her tongue. “Sit. Both of you.”

Raphael obeys, lowering himself onto the edge of Rosa’s bed, shifting her blankets aside so he can lean back against the wall, exhaling shakily until the room stops tilting. Sara sets her basin on the nightstand. The water inside is cloudy with herbs; yarrow, comfrey, a pinch of salt. She dips her fingers in and stirs, whispering under her breath.

Rosa watches her. “You’re using the strong mix.”

“You’re both a mess,” Sara replies. “I need all the help I can get.” She wrings out a cloth and presses it gently to Rosa’s swollen arm.

Raphael watches, eyes softening. “Does it help?”

“A little,” Rosa says, wincing. “Takes the edge off.”

Sara glances at him. “Your turn.”

Raphael stiffens. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

He looks down. He is.

Rosa nudges him with her good hand. “Let her.”

Raphael sighs, defeated. Sara lifts the hem of his shirt carefully. The bruises are already blooming in deep purples, sickly greens, the kind that will stain for weeks. She presses the cloth to his ribs. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

Rosa watches him closely. “He did this?”

Raphael doesn’t answer.

Sara does. “Yes.”

Rosa’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

“I owed him,” Raphael says quietly.

“No,” Rosa says. “Rapha, no.”

Raphael closes his eyes. “He kept his men from killing me. That’s not nothing.”

“That’s leverage,” Sara says, brushing Rosa’s hair back, blonde strands catching on the pillows around her. “It’s not a favour you need to thank him for.”

Raphael swallows, throat still raw. “I thought if I went, it would end it.”

Sara snorts softly, dipping her rag back into the water. “Sébastien isn’t going to end something he can’t get more out of. Stop talking.” She presses the rag to his throat, where the bruising is darkest. Raphael’s breath catches, but he stays still.

“You scared us,” Rosa says. "You left without telling anyone."

Raphael opens his eyes, suddenly suspecting this was a coordinated ploy to shut him up long enough to lecture him. “I’m sorry.”

“No apologies,” Sara says, pushing his jaw shut. “You owe us surviving.”

The next morning, they sit in the kitchen, sunlight streaming in lazy ribbons from the back window, painting the room golden. Rosa eats with her good arm. Valentina, one of the moonlighters,. shares a large plate of eggs and potatoes with her. Sara hums on the floor, laying out the girls’ laundry from the night before in colour coordinated piles, Lupe dozing at her side.

“Switch with me, Sara. Eat.” Rapha looks up, pushing the jellied seeds of a tomato around on his plate.

Sara clicks her tongue. “No, I ate before you woke up. You need to sit,” she looks up, waving a wet skirt at him, thin purple fabric catching the light.

Blanca strides in from the garden, arms full of herbs and flowers, pausing to press her hand to the doorway. “Who’s been feeding the cat again?”

The three of them look at each other, then down. Rosa referred to the small brown critter as Pequeña, and that seemed to have stuck among the rest of the girls, though Rapha and Sara agreed her name should’ve been Julia.

“She’ll be in the house soon enough,” Blanca huffs. “Sara?”

“Yes?”

“Hang the washing soon. The sun will be gone by ten.”

Sara gathers the clothes in front of her and hurries out the back. Lupe trails behind her, following the scent of whatever scraps had been left near the fence for the cat.

Blanca pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, opening her ledger next to Rapha. “Valentina, are you staying on tonight?”

Valentina looks up. “Yes, if that’s okay.”

Rosa places her hand on Valentina’s thigh. “She can use my room.”

“You need rest. Will you be able to sleep with her using your room?” Blanca asks.

“You can sleep at the bakery, you have the key,” Valentina says softly.

“No.” Blanca’s voice is firm. “None of my housegirls are spending nighttime outside of The Three Soldiers.”

“It’s okay. She can use my room,” Rosa turns to Valentina, laying her head on the brunette’s shoulder. “I don’t mind watching.”

Blanca ignores this. “Fine. Valentina, you leave after sunrise, and you take the cab I call for you. No exceptions.”

Valentina nods. “Rosa, I don’t think I remember where your room is. You’re going to need to give me a tour,” she smiles, taking Rosa’s arm. Rosa looks back when they reach the doorway.

“As long as you wash before opening, and you don’t mess up that arm, I don’t care.” Blanca sighs as the pair run off into the house together.

The knock at the door startles the both of them. Blanca looks through the peephole, as Rapha cranes his head to look. The door unlatches and swings open, and in bounds Marisol, all frizzy plaits and trailing jumper sleeves.

“Mari!” Rapha says. “It’s only nine. You’re supposed to be at school.”

Marisol’s breath trembles as she ignores him, and turns to Blanca, pulling a shirt from her bag, covered in red-brown splotches.

Rapha’s heart stills. He thought he had buried the thing at the back of one of the machines in her room last night. He thought he could sneak back this morning and rinse it out without anyone noticing.

Blanca kneels so they’re eye level. “Did someone hurt you?” “No,” Marisol says quickly. “Not me. Him.”

Blanca watches him, arms folded, expression unreadable. “Raphael,” she says. “Explain.”

He doesn’t look at her. “It’s nothing.”

Marisol pulls back, glaring at him with all the fury a child can muster. “Don’t lie.”

Raphael sighs, defeated. “It was Sébastien.”

Blanca’s jaw tightens. “You told me you were doing a house-call for a regular.”

“I didn’t want you to stop me,” Raphael says quietly.

“You’re right,” Blanca replies. “I would have.”

Marisol looks between them, confused. “Who’s Sébastien? Did you do something bad?”

Blanca steps closer. “Mari, sweetheart, go see if your Tía Sara needs help in the garden. I need to speak with your brother.”

Mari looks at him, then at her, trailing out of the room reluctantly.

“See if you can see the cat,” Rapha calls, walking her to the door and pointing towards a flash of brown fur near the herb garden.

Mari speeds up immediately. Raphael collapses into the sofa.

Blanca stands above him. “You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”

Blanca gives him a look.

“I didn’t want her to know.”

“She’s a child, not blind,” Blanca says. “And she’s family. That gives her eyes sharper than mine.”

Raphael’s throat tightens. “She shouldn’t have to worry about me.” He sighs. “She thinks I’m a nurse, Blanca. The school only lets her board because you vouched for us, if she loses me, then–.” Blanca softens. “Raphael. That arrangement exists because you work hard, because you show up for her, because she thrives there. Not because you walk into fire at the first glimmer of forgiveness.”

Raphael’s voice is barely a whisper. “He didn’t hurt me over Rosa then. He hurt me last night. That settles it.”

Blanca shakes her head. “Men like him settle only when someone stops them.”

Raphael looks up sharply. “Blanca—”

“You think your life is worth less than the girls’. It is not.” Blanca turns, smoothing her skirt. “Sébastien will not touch you again.”

Raphael tenses. “Blanca, don’t—”

“I am not sending anyone after him,” she says, raising her hands. “I am not starting or ending anything. But I will not allow him near my house, my girls, or my boy.”

Raphael blinks at her last syllable, and Blanca softens upon seeing him.

“Rapha, do you think I kept you on solely because men pay well for what they don’t understand?” She shakes her head. “I kept you because you are mine to protect. And you are worth protecting.”

Raphael exhales. “I don’t want a war.”

“There won’t be one,” Blanca says. “You will rest. You will let Sara tend to you. And when you’re well enough, you will go visit Marisol at school. She deserves your apology.”

Raphael nods, eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

Blanca pauses at the door. “Raphael.”

He looks up.

“You are not a liability,” she says. “You are family. Start acting like it.”

For a few, precious weeks, it all healed over.

Raphael found himself easing back into routines he’d forgotten he loved; quiet mornings in the courtyard sweeping fallen jacaranda blossoms into neat piles, afternoons spent mending hems for the girls who always tore their skirts on the banister, evenings where he begged Sara not to burn her herbs while the washing was drying because the smoke wouldn’t come out. Marisol wrote him letters from school, each one decorated with doodles of cats wearing hats, labelled with increasingly intricate descriptions of how each one was related to Pequeña.

Wednesdays became his favorite, because he and Rosa were trusted to chaperone each other on their weekly trip to Valentina’s bakery. Rosa would lean against the display case, chin propped on her good hand, and whisper conspiratorially about which customers were secretly in love with Valentina. Raphael would pretend not to listen, and Valentina would pretend not to blush. Sometimes, he would be given a pastry and a cup of coffee on the house for his troubles.

One afternoon, as they walked back from the bakery, Rosa looped her arm through his carefully, mindful of his ribs that still ached when he breathed too deeply.

“You’re quieter,” she said.

Raphael nudged a pebble with the toe of his boot. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s what I mean,” Rosa replied. “You only think this much when you’re worried.”

He huffed a laugh. “You make me sound simple.”

“You are,” she said cheerfully.

He bumped her shoulder. She bumped him back, gentler. His headache was coming back, and he was thankful for dusk's warm, dark, misty clouds hiding hom from the sun’s glare as he set off on the walk to Mari’s school. Rosa had insisted she come: Rapha had insisted she stay. They settled on her waiting at the café in town.

He had obliged.

The school sits on a hill overlooking the river, its stone walls washed pale by the morning sun. He stands at the gate for a long moment, smoothing the front of his shirt, willing his heartbeat to slow. He hasn’t been here since the start of term. Blanca insisted he wait until he was healed enough to walk without wincing. He’d argued, but she’d been right; Mari would have noticed immediately.

The gatekeeper glances up as Raphael approaches. “Name?”

“Raphael Álvarez,” he says. “I’m here to see my sister, Marisol.”

The man checks a ledger, nods, and waves him through.

The school grounds are immaculate: flowering bushes, gravel paths, a fountain shaped like a rearing horse. Children in navy uniforms scatter across the courtyard, laughing, chasing each other, trading pastries smuggled from breakfast. The air is fresh here, warm and bright, tinged with the slow drift of cherry blossoms and cooking food from the trees and kitchen.

He spots Marisol immediately. She’s sitting on a bench beneath a tree, book open on her lap, chewing on a bread roll. She looks up, sees him, and her entire face lights.

“Rapha!” She barrels into him before he can brace himself. He laughs, catching her, ignoring the faint ache in his ribs.

“You’re supposed to be in class,” he says.

“It’s break,” she replies. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” She pulls back, squinting at him. “You look tired.”

Raphael huffs. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He nudges her shoulder. “Come on. Show me around.”

Marisol grabs his hand and pulls him across the courtyard, weaving between clusters of students. She narrates everything with the breathless enthusiasm of someone who has been storing stories for weeks. “That’s the art room. We’re not allowed in without a teacher because someone set a canvas on fire last year. And that’s the library, but it smells like old socks. And that’s the dormitory. Mine is on the top floor, and I get a special slanted ceiling, like a princess.”

Raphael listens, smiling, letting her chatter fill the spaces where his thoughts try to creep in.

They reach the dormitory steps when a voice calls out.

“Marisol.” A woman in a crisp grey dress approaches, hands clasped neatly in front of her. Her hair is pinned so tightly it looks painful.

Mari straightens immediately. “Señorita Calderón,” she says.

The woman’s gaze shifts to Raphael. “You must be her brother.”

“Yes,” Raphael replies. “Raphael Álvarez.”

She studies him with the polite scrutiny of someone trained to notice everything and comment on nothing. “We’re glad you could visit. Marisol has been doing very well.”

Marisol beams.

Raphael nods. “She works hard.”

“She does,” Miss Calderón agrees. “And we appreciate your… consistency. Not all guardians are so reliable.”

Raphael feels the weight beneath her words. He knows what she means. Blanca had explained it the first time she’d arranged the boarding: They will not take her if they think you are unstable. They will not keep her if they think you are a risk.

“I do my best,” he says.

Miss Calderón’s eyes flick briefly to his neck, where the edge of a bruise peeks out over his collar. “We ask that families maintain a certain… presentation. Stability is important for the children.”

Raphael stiffens. “Of course.”

Marisol steps closer to him, chin lifted. “My brother is stable.”

Miss Calderón smiles thinly. “I’m sure he is. Enjoy your visit.”

She walks away.

Raphael exhales slowly.

Marisol tugs his sleeve. “Don’t listen to her. She talks like that to everyone.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she mutters. “She thinks because you don’t have a normal job—”

“Marisol.”

She stops, scowling at the gravel.

Raphael crouches so they’re eye level. “I don’t care what she thinks. I care that you’re safe here. That you’re happy.”

“I am,” she says. “But I’m happier when you visit.”

He smiles. “Then I’ll visit more.”

She brightens instantly. “Come see my room.”

Her dormitory is small but tidy, two beds pushed against opposite walls, a desk cluttered with pencils and half-finished drawings. A paper cat wearing a crown sits on the windowsill.

Raphael picks it up. “Pequeña?”

“No,” Marisol says. “That’s her cousin, in the walls. Julia.”

“Ah,” he says. “Of course.”

She giggles.

They sit on her bed, legs dangling. Marisol talks about her classes, her friends, the girl who snores so loudly the whole dorm shakes. Raphael listens, soaking in every detail, every expression, every moment of her being a child in a place where she’s allowed to be one.

When the bell rings, she groans. “I have arithmetic.”

“Tragic,” Raphael says.

“Walk me to class?”

He does. At the doorway, she hesitates, then throws her arms around him again.

“Don’t get hurt anymore,” she whispers.

Raphael’s breath catches. “I’ll try.”

He watches her disappear into the classroom, small and determined and braver than she knows.

As he walks back through the courtyard, Miss Calderón’s words echo faintly, but Marisol’s linger louder.

My brother is stable.

He isn’t sure it’s true. But for her, he will try to make it so.

When he reaches the gate, he adjusts his shirt, straightens his shoulders, and steps back into the world.

Raphael is halfway to the gate when Miss Calderón’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Señor Álvarez. A moment, please.”

She stands beneath the archway, hands folded, expression polite in the way a locked door is.

“Of course,” he says.

“Come with me.”

She leads him through a side corridor into a small office lined with filing cabinets. The air smells faintly of chalk and lavender polish. She gestures to a chair.

“Sit.”

He does. Miss Calderón closes the door with a soft click, then takes her seat behind the desk. She opens a ledger. It’s thick, heavy, the kind that holds more judgment than numbers.

“I wanted to speak with you privately,” she begins, “regarding Marisol’s fees.”

Raphael’s stomach tightens. “Her fees are paid.”

“For the moment,” she says. “But the next term begins in six weeks, and we have not yet received confirmation of continued sponsorship.”

“Sponsorship?” Raphael repeats.

“Yes.” She looks up at him, eyes sharp. “From Señora Blanca.”

Raphael blinks. “Blanca… sent confirmation last month.”

“She sent a letter of intent,” Miss Calderón corrects. “Not a guarantee.”

Raphael swallows. “I thought—she told me—”

“That the arrangement was secure?” Miss Calderón finishes. “I’m sure she meant well. But the school cannot operate on goodwill.”

Raphael sits straighter. “I can pay. I’ve been working more. I can—”

She lifts a hand, stopping him. “Señor Álvarez, this is not a matter of your willingness. It is a matter of your stability.”

The word lands like a stone.

Raphael forces his voice steady. “I am stable.”

Miss Calderón’s gaze flicks—just once—to the faint yellowing bruise at his jaw. “We have certain expectations for guardians. Consistency. A reliable income. A safe home environment.”

Raphael’s throat tightens. “She has all of that.”

“She has it,” Miss Calderón says, “because Señora Blanca provides it.”

Raphael’s fingers curl against his knee.

Miss Calderón continues, tone cool and administrative. “When Marisol was first admitted, we were hesitant. A single…sibling as guardian, no formal employment, no fixed address beyond a boarding house of unconventional nature.”

Raphael’s jaw clenches.

“But Señora Blanca vouched for you,” she says. “She signed as guarantor. She assured us that if anything happened to you—illness, injury, financial instability—Marisol’s fees would still be covered.”

Raphael feels the room tilt slightly. “I didn’t know she—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Miss Calderón says. “She did not want to embarrass you.”

He looks down at his hands. “I can pay next term. I will.”

Miss Calderón folds her hands. “Señor Álvarez, this is not simply about money. It is about continuity. If Blanca withdraws her guarantee, or if she is unable to continue it, Marisol’s place here will be reconsidered.”

Reconsidered. Her voice is soft. It feels like a blade.

Raphael forces himself to breathe. “Blanca won’t withdraw.”

“Perhaps not,” Miss Calderón says. “But circumstances change.”

Raphael flinches.

Her voice softens, not kindly, but professionally. “We want what is best for Marisol. She is bright. She is thriving. But the school must ensure that her home life is stable enough to support her progress.”

Raphael lifts his chin. “She is safe with me.”

“I’m sure she is,” Miss Calderón replies. “But safety is not the same as stability.”

He doesn’t answer.

She closes the ledger. “Please speak with Señora Blanca. We will need written confirmation of next term’s arrangement within the month.”

Raphael stands slowly. “I understand.”

Outside, the sunlight feels too bright. The courtyard too open. Raphael walks until he reaches the gate, then stops, gripping the iron bars until his knuckles pale. He had known—of course he had known—that Marisol’s place here was fragile. But hearing it spoken aloud, in that measured, bureaucratic tone, makes it real in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Blanca is the reason the school tolerates him at all.

He exhales shakily.

He will have to tell her what Miss Calderón said. He will have to ask her for help again. He hates the thought of it. Hates needing anything. Hates that his sister’s future hangs on a ledger he doesn’t control.

He straightens, adjusts his shirt, and begins the walk back to The Three Soldiers.

When he reaches the house, the courtyard was full of sunlight and the smell of drying lavender. Sara stayed in her room, window open, preparing wards and charms for the night to come. Marisol’s latest letter sat on the table, folded into a shape that might have been a boat or a hat—Raphael couldn’t tell.

He unfolds it carefully.

‘Pequeña has a cousin who lives in the walls,’ she’d written. ‘I think she is shy. Or maybe she is a ghost. If she is a ghost, make sure Tía Sara tells her she can still have milk.’

Raphael smiles.

Blanca watches him from the doorway. “You look better,” she said.

“I feel better.”

“Good.” She steps aside so he could pass. “Then you can help me with the storeroom.”

That night, Raphael stands in the dressing room among the girls, running his fingers over the cuts on his side, as if trying to test whether or not the scars will hold. Valentina looks at him briefly, waving him to the side so she can grab her hairbrush. He pulls his shirt back down immediately.

“Sara,” he calls. “Can I use your hair cream?”

Sara glances up from fitting her skirt, taking the pins from her mouth and stabbing them into the seat-cushion behind her.

“You going out tonight?” She calls.

Rapha nods, doing the last of the buttons up on his shirt. “Señor Duarte.” He picks up the jar slowly, holding it up to her in question.

Sara waves a hand. “Go on, then. See me before you leave.”

Raphael grins and digs his fingers into the glossy yellow cream. It smells sharp, like lemongrass and nutmeg as he spreads it across his scalp and into his thick brown curls. There was a time when, from the back, he and Sara looked near identical, as long as he wore heels. Same hairstyle and length and texture—Sara hated it. Rapha would use it to steal extra biscuits from the kitchen after dinner.

He crosses the room, stepping over lone shoes and forgotten bodices to the sink in the corner. Opening the tap with his elbow, he rinses the last of the cream from his hands, rising to meet his reflection in the small mirror.

“Rosa,” he turns.

“Mm?” Rosa asks, teasing jewelry through her piercings. It had been weeks since she’d worked the floor, and she was struggling with a particularly stubborn navel ring.

“I’m thinking…” he says slowly, “maybe just a little.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Something subtle.”

“Subtle,” Rosa repeats, as if tasting the word. “You? Since when?”

Raphael flicks water at her. She ducks and laughs, holding up her hands, dropping her jewelry in the process. Her eyes widen as she crouches on the floor, running her fingers across the carpet. “Rapha!”

He rolls his eyes and reaches for the small tin of tinted balm on the shelf.

“You’re nervous,” she says, wiping the recovered ring clean on the hem of her top.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You only ask about makeup when you’re nervous.”

Raphael opens the tin anyway, dabbing a fingertip into the soft pigment. “It’s a house-call. I want to look presentable.”

“Rapha,” Rosa says, softer now, “you and presentable are oxymorons.”

He doesn’t answer. He smooths the balm under his eyes, blending it until it disappears into his skin. It’s barely anything, just enough to even him out, to make him look less tired.

He likes it.

Behind him, the room swirls with movement: Valentina tugging her hair into place, Sara fastening the last hook on her bodice, two of the older girls arguing over a missing ring.

Rosa steps closer, nudging him aside so she can see the mirror too. “Tilt your chin,” she says.

He does. She reaches up with her good hand and brushes a stray curl back from his forehead, smoothing it into place with a practiced touch.

“There,” she says. “Now you look presentable.”

Raphael huffs a laugh. “Thank you, Rosalína.”

Rosa bumps her shoulder against his. “Don’t make it weird.”

Sara’s voice cuts across the room. “Rapha! You said you’d see me before you go.”

He straightens, smoothing his shirt. “I’m coming.”

She stands by the door, hands on her hips, watching him walk over. A single red ribbon droops from her hand, identical to the one tied around her own wrist. She holds her hand out.