The rain did not fall gently that night. It lashed against the cobblestones of the old city, each drop a tiny fist pounding against the earth. Ana stood beneath the crumbling archway of the Santa Clara convent, her shawl soaked through, her knuckles white around the handle of a worn leather satchel. Inside the satchel was not gold, nor jewels, but something far more dangerous: a stack of letters, each one a confession, each one a key to a lock that powerful men wanted to keep sealed forever.
Graciela shrugged. “Because I am old. And an old woman’s heart has only two choices: to harden into stone, or to burn. Mine is still burning.”
“Why are you helping me?” Ana asked, though she already suspected the answer.
Valiente. Brave.