“This will not please Doña Juana.” The sharpness in Ana Luisa’s voice took me by surprise. “What won’t please her?” I asked. Surely not the mouthwatering pozole. Starved of rest, my mind was slow to follow what Ana Luisa meant. She avoided my eyes as she stirred the cauldron of soup before her. Wood from the fire beneath the stove crackled; the silence between us filled with blue smoke. The heat made a bead of sweat drip down her brow. “That you invited the witch onto her property,” she said at last. Panic threaded through my chest. The witch, she said.