“It’ll heal faster,” he says, a hint of challenge in his eyes.
That pushes me. I sit down, my legs folded over each other, and pull the basket closer. Holding up a glass vial with what looks like white vinegar, I wait for Rumi’s go-ahead. He nods, and I find a cloth inside the basket then soak a corner of it.
I take a deep breath and press the rag against my burns. The intense sting makes me bite my lip. A cold, sharp ache follows a loud rushing noise in my ears that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I take away the cloth, eyes watering. I suddenly realize Rumi is sitting in front of me.
“I’ll get this done in a moment,” he says briskly.
I faintly nod, my wrist screaming. He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and cleans my wrist. He takes out a bandage and then presses the herbs—dried lavender—and wraps everything together, finishing with a tight knot. Rumi quickly cleans my other hand, and I try not to make a sound.
Once finished, he gathers his supplies and stands. I remain on the ground. My head swims, and I’m weirdly light-headed.
“We need to do that once a day,” he says in that same brisk tone. “Don’t sleep on your hands.”
“I want the loom.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I said I’ll get it, and I will.”
He leaves without a backward glance. I crawl to the stone wall and lean against it, appreciating its harsh coldness. My wrists feel like they’re on fire. I tip my head back, and my gaze snags on a word etched into the stone, just above eye level. I reach for it, sink my finger into the crevices, the edges sharp. Courage, it says, written in Castellano. Whoever carved this message must have been an Illustrian. I close my eyes, my finger tracing the word as if it’s a lifeline, as if it connects me to the person who carved it.
My heart whispers a name, and I believe it.
Ana.
Rumi visits again. Instead of the loom, he brings that infernal medicine basket and a book.
A book.
I frown. What is this? Reading in the dim light will give me a headache. “That’s not a loom.”
He holds out the book in between the bars. “Take it.”
I eye it warily. Studying is more Catalina’s thing. At the keep, it’s a normal occurrence to see her surrounded by piles of books in the library. Everyone is given access to these written tales, all the ones that survived the revolt. But it’s Catalina who painstakingly keeps track of each page and tome. “I’m actually not much of a reader.”
He stares at me, his hand still outstretched. And waits. I sigh, snatch the book, and glance at the title. Historia de las Llacsans.
History of the Llacsans. Wonderful.
“Why would I read this?”
“Consider it an education,” he says testily. “You’ve got plenty of time for reading. And you need a bandage change.”
Resigned, I let him pour vinegar onto my wrists again and change the old bandages. It hurts a little less than the day before. I study him while he works. What if he breaks his promise? Maybe he has no intention of finding a loom. My attempts to ask him are met with curt dismissals. Unease sweeps over me. His cold indifference does nothing to soothe my nerves.
Rumi goes back up to his king, and I leave the book on the floor. I don’t need to read about their history. I only care about tomorrow.
I stay in the dungeon. The guards play their dice game. Someone changes the oil in the torches. I sleep on the stone when I can get comfortable, but mostly I stare at the ceiling or stretch my sore legs. On the rare occasion the guards are gone, I practice my fighting stances.
Rumi notices the book by the door on his next visit. Other than his lips pressing into a flat line, he barely registers my presence. Even so, it breaks up the monotony. He makes sure I have food and water, changes my bandages, and leaves.
He doesn’t bring the loom.
It’s hard for me to admit when I’ve made a mistake. I thought I’d been clever in getting him to agree to the deal. But I wasn’t clever—I was foolish. And naïve. I trusted a Llacsan to keep his word. Catalina isn’t here to see me fail, but if I don’t send a message soon, she’ll know I failed anyway.
A group of guards descend on my cell. Weak from lack of sleep, I don’t resist when a female guard, one of the few I’ve seen, lifts me by my armpits. I stumble and another helps her carry me from the dungeon. Moonlight cutting through the windows hurts my eyes, but I welcome the pain. The goddess revives me as if I’m drinking water after having none for days and days.
My head clears. My vision focuses. Small changes, but I feel them in my soul.
And when Atoc’s guards deposit me onto the bed inside the pigskin-colored room, the first thing I see standing in the middle is a loom.
CAPÍTULO
It still hurts that I had to part with my own loom—a gift from my Llacsan nanny. Whatever I feel about the rest of them, I won’t and can’t tolerate a single thing against her. She helped raise me. It was her dedication to my early upbringing that turned me into the weaver I am today. She’d patiently sit with me for hours while I practiced making diamond and cloud patterns and learned how to create shapes and letters by weaving strands over and under the warp thread.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of her.
The guards shut the door behind me and I step closer to the loom. This one, sturdy and handsome with contrasting light and dark wood, takes up most of the space in the center of the room. A small stool sits in front of it. Next to it are rolled-up balls of wool, varying in shades of yellows, purples, reds, and deep blues the color of blueberries. The loom is bigger than mine by probably half a foot, but that doesn’t matter. It’ll work.
Moonlight peeps through the curtains, giving my legs the energy to stand. Skirting around the loom, I fling open the balcony doors. Silver light pours in, transforming my room from something dark and claustrophobic into a livable space bathed in Luna’s rays.
Food is sitting in a big bowl on the dresser—herbed quinoa, crispy papas flavored with black mint and smoked salt, and grilled choclo, a long ear of it. But even that doesn’t tempt me from sinking onto the stool and thinking of a new design to weave.
My heart beats fast, and I grab some white wool. I loop the warp thread around the top and bottom wooden bars. As I work, my gaze snags on the basket filled with colors.
I should use Illustrian neutrals … but I’ve never had the chance to experiment. The basket is a riot, a parade, a fiesta of color, and I want to dive into it with both eyes open.
I bite my lip. Catalina will expect me to use my wool, I know that, but maybe it’s wiser to hide the message in traditional Llacsan color combinations. Maybe Atoc and his priest will be less suspicious. Atoc might even appreciate the tapestry on its own merit. Or be happy that I can weave at all. Excelling in a Llacsan skill will only make him look better. A wife who can follow his traditions.
I reach for the wool in the basket and then thread a strand around my finger. A bright tomato red. I glance at the window and look for the moon. Will Luna be pleased? Will the moonlight still turn to thread in my fingers if I use dyed wool?
There’s only one way to find out. I push aside my white wool, fighting off the stab of guilt, and weave the red thread, over and under, until I reach the other end. Next, I add a watermelon pink and an eggplant purple. Up, over, and down, up, over, and down, until the three colors cover the bottom third, making a thick stripe of each color.
Starting at the middle, I begin with a simple diamond pattern, weaving a red strand from the left to the right. I know countless techniques by heart, but this one is my favorite. It’s the first one I learned.
“Under one, over three, under one, over two, under one, over two, and repeat,” I say under my breath. Then I start from the other side and repeat the process.
As I work, the moonlight glints around me, growing brighter. My fingers blur as I move from left to right and back again. I finish with the red, start on the pink, and then I’m ready for my moon thread.
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My breath catches in the back of my throat. No matter how many times I’ve used Luna’s rays to make thread, each time the shimmer of magic courses through me, it surprises me. I can feel my wounds, internal and external, closing and healing. I am made whole. Not quite happy, but Luna’s soft touch heals what she can.
With the moon thread wrapped around my index finger, I wind the strand around and around, forming a glittering silver ball. It lights up the whole room, and everything it touches shimmers and shines, awash in Luna’s glow.
Now the real work begins. It takes all of my discipline, all of my energy, to weave my secret message into the tapestry. Hours pass. Moonlight winks and glitters and turns into dust as I work the thread. The dust flutters to my feet, sparkling brightly, like the stars peppering the dark night.
My shoulders and neck stiffen, my fingers cramp.
But at last, I finish.
The moon thread shimmers and touches ordinary strands of llama wool, blending the words into the diamond pattern. Only an Illustrian will be able to read them: WEDDING DURING CARNAVAL.
After some considering, I add a swarm of bees to the tapestry in a honey-hued string as a way to distract from the message. Or maybe because I want to use the bright yellow color. I weave in the moon thread to add a touch of sparkle to their wings then bend close to examine my work.
One of the wings twitches beneath my thumb.
Gasping, I bring the tapestry closer. The wing flutters again and stills. My fingers clutch the thread tighter.
¿Qué diablos? Did I really just see the tapestry move? I must be tired, or … I had really seen …
I lean closer. “Do it again,” I whisper.
But the wing stays put.
I study the tapestry. Is Luna trying to tell me something? Weave more bees? Add something else to the message? Go to sleep, Ximena, it’s nearly morning?
I stand, reaching high until my back cracks. I must have imagined it.
Quickly, I gather up the moondust. Cielos, if a guard—or worse, Rumi—finds it, what would they do? It’s a relief to have some on hand again, but without a broom, I have to gather the dust with my hands. By the time I finish, my knees drag on the floor. I devour my cold dinner—still delicious, damn them—before I flop onto the bed, my eyes heavy with sleep. But a nagging thought prevents me from drifting.
How am I going to get the tapestry out of the castillo?
The Llacsan maid holds out a dress, trying to push the yards of fabric into my arms. I want to swat her advances away like she’s a mosquito. But she prevails. I glare, staring at the ruffles and black lace tickling my chin.
Atoc demands that I attend court. And not just today, but every court day in the foreseeable future. I’m expected to dress in the finery of his choosing, my hair styled in the Llacsan fashion of two long braids down the back, and my lips painted a cayenne-pepper red.
Nothing I say or do changes the maid’s mind. Sensing my dwindling protests, she begins braiding my hair. When she finishes, she points to my tapestry, draped over the chair.
I nod. “Yes, mine, I did it.”
She seems surprised and maybe a little curious, given the way she stares at me, her head tilted and her eyes crinkling. She hands me a little pot of dyed wax for my lips. I let her finish my makeup and then at last, at long last, she gives me her idea of a look of approval.
By that I mean, she isn’t scowling at me.
She finishes tying the black bow on my back. My dress is a dark yellow that reminds me of honey. The same color as the bees woven into my tapestry. I can’t believe I thought they actually moved. How long has it been since I had a real Luna-blessed night’s sleep?
The door opens—no one in the castillo seems to know how to knock—and the guard ushers Rumi in. The maid nods once in his direction and then leaves.
He stops short at the sight of me.
For a moment he appears stunned. Then his face resets to its usual haughty lines: His dark brows pull together with a sharp crease in between, and his lips press into a thin slash. “Who gave you that dress?” He sounds furious.
I haven’t said a word and I’ve already done something wrong. It’s not like I had a choice in what to wear. “I’m not changing,” I say through my teeth.
“¿Qué?” he snaps, his hand on the doorknob. “Did I say you had to?”
“You didn’t have to say it.”
“That dress—” He breaks off, his mouth twisting.
“What about it?”
He shakes his head.
“¿Qué te pasa?” I ask, impatient.
“We’re late. Forget I said anything. Can you walk and talk at the same time? King Atoc, ruler of the Great Lake, of El Altiplano and all the land in between—”
His voice hits a worshipping note that makes me snort.
“—wants you up front.”
I grab a fistful of the dress—it’s nearly a foot too long—and sweep past him. But as I do, he suddenly reaches out and takes hold of my upper arm.
“What,” he asks, “is that?”
I follow his line of sight to my tapestry. It takes everything in me to keep my face perfectly neutral. To not react or stiffen or jerk away in surprise. The rest of me blazes. All of my senses are on high alert, crying out a warning.
“Did you meet her?” His eyes snap to mine.
I blink in confusion. “Who?”
Rumi leans forward, his eyes intent on me. “So you didn’t?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about, Llacsan.”
He releases me and walks toward the chair. I suck in a quiet breath and fight the impulse to cry out when he lifts the tapestry, poring over every detail. “You made this.”
His tone suggests he doesn’t think me capable of creating something this beautiful.
“Yes.” I shift my feet, clasping and unclasping my hands.
What if he finds the message? It’s impossible, I know that, but his intense study increases my apprehension. Luna only reveals herself to Illustrians. The message won’t make sense to a Llacsan. He sees only the glimmer of light. A faint silver. A touch of magic. Only part of the picture.
“Aren’t we late?”
He merely grunts and continues studying the work. “That’s just something I say to get you out of my hands faster. You used several techniques in this, and they surprisingly work well together.”
I’m not sure what to respond to first. The first insult or the second.
“I told you I was a weaver. It’s why I asked for the loom.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t automatically trust the word of an Illustrian,” he says, finally looking away from the tapestry. His intense expression startles me. “I’ve never seen this color thread before. It’s glowing. It definitely wasn’t in the basket I sent up.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.
“Where did you get it?”
His scrutiny of the moon thread does nothing to settle my anxiety. I don’t want to share my magic with him. It’s mine. It brings me joy and peace and life. It hides the truth in plain sight.
Rumi wears his usual scowl as he waits for my answer. Which I absolutely won’t give.
Juan Carlos pokes his head inside the room. “Are you two coming or what? His Majesty hates when people arrive after him.” When he sees what’s in Rumi’s hand, he walks in, his mouth slightly agape. “Who gave you this gift, Condesa?”
I blink, long and slow and annoyed. “No one. This is my work.”
“Who knew you were so talented?” he says with a wink. “What do I have to sacrifice in order to get one?”
“I’m not wasting my wool on you.”
He shrugs and leans forward to study the tapestry alongside the healer. A flutter of unease spreads through me. Now there are two Llacsans studying my secret message to Catalina.
It’s taking all of my self-control to keep myself from ripping the tapestry out of their hands. I analyze both boys as they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads
bent toward the shimmering thread. Rumi and Juan Carlos share almost the same height, have the same long, curling hair and dark eyes. They could be brothers. One with an eternal smile, the other an intolerable grump. I like people who fall somewhere in the middle.
“Are you related?” I ask.
The question seems to amuse Rumi. They both remain silent, engrossed by the moon thread.
“This would make an excellent gift for King Atoc,” Juan Carlos says, ignoring me.
My face blanches. That tapestry belongs to Catalina. It absolutely can’t be gifted to the usurper. “What? No. He hates me. He’d probably burn it or use it to wipe his—”
“What do you think?” Juan Carlos interrupts. “You’ve been so worried.”
Rumi growls. “Stop talking.”
“But you get what I’m suggesting?” He fingers the soft thread.
Rumi slowly nods. Then he picks up the tapestry and carries it out of the room, turning away from me as I try to reach for it. Anger sears me. What gives him the right to take my things? I used the majority of my wool on that message.
“Where are you taking my tapestry?” I ask. The healer ignores me. I stalk out of the room after him. “Who do you think you are?”
“You’re his responsibility,” Juan Carlos says, keeping in stride with me.
“So?”
“Everything you do reflects on Rumi.” Juan Carlos shoots me a pointed look.
He’s referring to my time in the dungeon.
“Not my problem.” I stop walking. “I’m not taking another step until you give me back my tapestry, Llacsan.”
Both of them pivot and reach for me, Juan Carlos on my left and Rumi on my right. They each grip an arm in a viselike hold that makes me flinch.
“Come along, Condesa,” Rumi says.
Madre de Luna. He actually sounds bored.
“It’s mine,” I say, digging my heels in. I can’t let them have it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. “Give it back.”
Juan Carlos locks the bedroom door. Working together, they drag me down the corridor, setting off for the great hall. I have no choice but to follow, stumbling over my long dress, cursing them both.
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