“Gracias,” I said. “But I’ve never ridden a horse before.”
Amato said nothing.
I exchanged a look with Emilia, then shrugged.
We had both seen stranger things in our lives.
Emilia had ridden before, so she hoisted herself up, then pulled me up next. “Hold on to me,” said Emilia, and I gripped her around the waist, my face in her long hair, and she smelled of the earth, of sweat, of flowers.
We begin, Amato said.
I nearly fell as soon as the horse began to trot, and my distance from the ground was even more frightening once we were moving. I bounced up and down on the back of that beautiful creature, and Emilia laughed, an infectious, joyful noise. “You’re too tense, Xochitl,” she said. “Relax. Trust her. She knows what she is doing.”
Your love is wise, Amato said. Perhaps you should listen to her.
My love. Why would Amato say that?
I braced myself first, not listening to their advice, but it only made it worse. I learned my lesson quickly. The earth passed in a blur, the wind whipping at my face, blowing Emilia’s scent into my nose, and I let my fear go. I leaned into her, still clutching her waist, and I watched the guardians, galloping all around us, their paws gracefully digging into the dirt as they ran.
We thundered along, the only sound in the desert. From my vantage point, I looked out at the land, watched as the saguaros rushed by, the tops of their tall hides covered in white flowers with yellow centers. All of them had bloomed, tiny beacons of hope and beauty that guided us south.
I could see that beauty this time. I didn’t remember much of the surroundings from even days earlier, but with my feet off the ground, my hands locked around la poeta, I could take it in. I saw the long shadows cast from the saguaros, how they stretched across the ground as if reaching for one another. The dark bark of the mesquites we passed glistened in the sunlight.
And her hair was so smooth, so shiny and perfect.
The day before, this trip, from La Reina to las bajadas, had taken a quarter of a day. The crumbling wall came into view so much faster than I expected, and a nervous energy thrummed through me. We had left people behind, and I had accepted that we would probably not see them again. But there—to the east, tucked behind a pile of rubble—a head popped up, whistled, and then they came out, a few at a time, and then Rosalinda was there, her jaw dropped open, too, and I climbed down from our horse, hit the ground hard.
“May I talk to them?” I asked the leader.
Do not take long. We have far to go.
I walked up to Rosalinda, whose hands were up to her face, and her eyes were red in the morning light. “Ay, niña,” she said. She gazed wide-eyed behind me. “What have you done?”
This was not an accusation. It was a celebration. She pulled me into a hug, and I saw Felipe behind her, his own eyes wide in disbelief, too. I hugged him, too, held them both long and hard.
“What is this, Xochitl?” she said. “Who have you brought with you?”
“It’s time for me to go home,” I said. “To face the truth.”
The children of La Reina Nueva gathered around, brought fresh nuts and prickly pear to us, and a fire was started. One of the girls had managed to catch a rabbit, and she wanted to gift it to us, the ones who had saved their guardians. I tried to explain that this was not the case, but she would not hear it.
And I told them everything I could. I had to. It felt good to do so at first. The children listened intently, never interrupting once as Emilia and I took turns explaining what had happened on Las Montañas de Solís. We told them of the journey, of entering Solado, of finding Eduardo y Luz, and they all hung on to every word.
“Did you find our parents?” Gabriela said, her eyes alight with hope.
That part was the hardest. I held Emilia’s hand as we talked, as we took turns filling in the final gaps of the story, as we revealed that the guardians had cleansed Solado … and had cleansed everyone who lived there, too.
I will never understand it, Solís. And it made me question it all. How was it fair that you had done the same thing so long ago? How many truly innocent people had you destroyed, just to make a point?
A shame spread through me. I had believed your story so wholly, Solís, so willfully. And I saw that unwavering devotion and hope in those children, in how they expected us to succeed.
But we didn’t. Their families were gone. And all we had for them was sorrow and pity.
Some of them cried, perhaps Pablo the hardest. Others were numb, and yet others took this revelation as if we had merely told them something mildly irritating. Everyone grieves in their own way, and Rosalinda—who sat Pablo in her lap, caressed his hair as he sobbed—had a difficult job ahead of her. But she wanted it. She was made for this.
“What will you and Felipe do?” I asked her.
Rosalinda set Pablo down on the ground, and he scurried off. “We don’t know,” she said. “We have to discuss this with the children. Felipe wants to stay, but that’s a lot of work. A new aldea.”
“Building one here?” asked Emilia.
Rosalinda nodded. “Or we could make the journey together back to Obregán. Find new homes for them. But something tells me they won’t want to do that.”
She smiled, then sent one of the children, a young girl with tight braids down her back, to wash herself. It was so natural for Rosalinda. And she had chosen this.
And now it was time for me to do the same.
“I am happy for you, Xochitl,” said Rosalinda. “What will you
