"Four months," I say, dropping a teacup that cracks on the floor. Ambrosio doesn't look at the porcelain. He looks at my hand. His face is a map of negotiations I have seen all my life. "You counted again," he says. "I counted at dawn and again now," I answer. My voice is steady. My fingers are not. A thin bruise is blooming at the base of my thumb; the skin under my nails has dull circles that refuse to go. Ambrosio opens his mouth and closes it. He slides the cup's shard into his palm and folds the pieces into the sleeve of his robe like a man wrapping a bad letter. "When did you learn?" he asks. "When the midwife hid the tray," I say. "When the physician pressed and left me to dry. Four months." He leans forward. The study smells of oud and old ink. He straightens a sheaf of papers on the desk, then pushes them away as if the script could burn him. "You know," he says, and the admission is not for me alone. "I knew before you did." "You lied to me," I say. "I lied to everyone," he replies. "A statesman must keep the family at hand. I traded silence for counsel. I traded daughters more than once. You think I do not taste the price?" "You traded me," I say. My throat tightens. I do not let more than a single sentence stay in my chest. Ambrosio closes