At some point, María looks up into Ysabel’s face, studying the freckles in her eyes, the bow of her lips, her gaze lingering so long the maid asks what she is thinking. And María wants to say that Andrés’s hands have never stirred such heat in her. Wants to say she is still hungry, though her stomach is full. That she could stay here for a hundred years. So long as Ysabel stayed, too.
