Pena Montoya had drowned. Marimar accepted that now, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it then. She’d needed someone to blame, and that was Orquídea. She’d loved her grandmother. Wanted to possess her magic, too. She’d wasted seven years simmering in her anger and all it took was a few hours breathing in the dusty air, seeing her grandmother in this state, and she was homesick enough to forgive.
