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With the blazing Portuguese sun beating down upon her bonnetless head and a list of historical sites fluttering in her reticule, Wanton Wallflower set off into the countryside.

She bounced. She jostled. She sweated in places a lady ought never to sweat.

The hours dragged on, interrupted only by the occasional scenic vista, the loud crinkle of her biscuit stash, and Filipe's vague assurances that the tombs of Pedro and Inês de Castro were just ahead.

"How far ahead?" she called after him.

He grinned. "Very near, Dona Wallflower."

That was the sixth "very near" in two hours. She began to suspect Filipe's concept of geography had been drawn by a blindfolded goose.

BOOM.

Wanton covered her stomach. She should have refused that last olive. It was to blame for the sudden indigestion. (Not the alarming quantity of salted cod she had consumed before the olive, of course.)

The sounds grew louder, now the clap of thunder.

Boom.

BOOM.

BOOOOM.

She paused, blinking up at the sun-drenched hills.

"Filipe?" she called, one hand on her bonnet, the other gripping Florinda's reins. "Do you hear that?"

Another BOOM echoed, closer this time. The ground trembled beneath them.

Filipe froze.

His eyes went wide. His face drained of color.

"Santa Maria…" he whispered, crossing himself three times with alarming speed. "They're here. Cannons. Guns. The devil's thunder!"

"What are you on about?" Wanton asked, peering toward the ridge. "I don't see anything?—"

Filipe scrambled back into the saddle, his limbs moving with the wild grace of a terrified ferret.

“Apologies, Dona Wallflower! I must protect my family!"

"Wait… what?"

But he was off—galloping away like the last biscuit had just fallen from the sky, and he was its only rightful heir.

Wanton stared after him, jaw slacked. "Filipe!" she shouted, twisting in the saddle. "Come back here at once! I paid to see the Royal couple's tomb!"

Her voice echoed across the hills.

Only Florinda remained.

And Florinda looked mildly bored.

Filipe—and her biscuits—disappeared over the ridge.

Uncle Barth used to say that if someone wrongs you in the wild, you have two choices: curse their name and wait for wolves or chase the blackguard down and reclaim your biscuits.

Wanton straightened. "Florinda," she said, voice low and trembling with the righteous fury of a woman scorned, "let's get my blasted biscuits back."

The mule flicked an ear.

And then—perhaps because she heard the righteous call of justice, or perhaps because she, too, had been duped out of snacks—Florinda began to trot.

Wanton clutched the reins, bouncing once more over the hills of Portugal, chasing vengeance, snacks, and whatever came next.

God help Filipe.

Because she was coming.

And this was going in her memoirs.