Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “No,” she snaps.

  I nod, swallowing hard. There is so much I want to tell her, but not if she doesn’t want to hear it. The words will be wasted. I want to talk with her, not at her. Turning, I take a step back into her bedroom.

  Her voice rings out. “Wait.”

  I spin, hope blooming in my chest.

  She still hasn’t turned around. “Fine. Why?”

  The hurt in her voice splinters my heart. I can’t live in Catalina’s world anymore—to go back to a time when Llacsans scraped by, barely surviving, when they were being pushed out of their homes, forced to live in the mountains as Illustrians stole the air they breathed and the earth they had walked upon for centuries.

  How do I begin to explain all that?

  “I asked you to abandon the revolt because Inkasisa needs a queen who will unite the people and bridge the divide. It doesn’t need more war or oppression, or mistreatment of anyone,” I continue, my hands splayed. “More lives will be lost if things continue in the same way as before. Mistakes will be repeated. There would eventually be another revolt—and this time against you.”

  Catalina grips the railing of the balcony, her shoulders slumping, and the proud veneer she wears crumbles. Her body trembles and her hand comes up to her face. I want to reach for her, but I force myself to stay still. There’s no one fighting for her anymore. She’s alone and she knows it. I need her to feel that—because maybe she’ll realize how wrong it is for her to cling to the throne.

  “That’s why I betrayed you, Catalina,” I whisper. “I wanted to end the war and not start a new one.”

  “Get out,” she says. “Just get out.”

  Catalina turns around, and the look she gives me tears at my heart. Her eyes do all the screaming.

  I cross the room, already trying to forget the expression on her face. But I doubt I’ll ever be able to. Rumi stands when the door opens, and he holds out his arms. I walk into them, settling my cheek against the soft cotton of his tunic. He rubs my shoulders and then gently leads me back to my room.

  “What can I do?” he whispers.

  I shake my head. There’s nothing. I’ve lost Catalina for good.

  Tomorrow will only make it official.

  The next day, Rumi helps me dress, a wicked gleam in his eyes. He teases and flirts and kisses me until I worry my cheeks will remain red until the end of time.

  I know what he’s doing, and I appreciate the distraction. It’s nice having him around. More than nice. Especially since he keeps up the habit of washing his clothes. When I say as much, Rumi roars with laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask. “It was a serious problem, Rumi. That smell was giving me grave concerns.”

  That only makes him laugh harder. “Ximena, I wash my clothes twice a week. At least. I always have.”

  “No—”

  “Yes,” he counters. “I stuffed my pockets with a bag of herbs to create the smell. A special blend, my own creation. That’s all that it was.”

  “Why would you do something so silly?”

  “Was it all that silly?” he asks slyly. “Distracted you plenty, didn’t it? People focused on the smell, on the slumping healer who made a spectacle of himself fawning over his precious king. Who would have ever thought the laughingstock of court was El Lobo? Certainly not you.”

  I purse my lips. It’s clever, but I’ll never say so. His ego needs to be kept in check.

  Rumi lets out another chuckle and opens the door for me.

  “Wait,” I say, turning around. My animals stare back at me. I motion for them to follow. “I want the world to meet them,” I explain. “It’s time.”

  Rumi takes the sloth in his arms, and the lizard settles onto his shoulder. The parrot flies above our heads, followed closely by the owl, who came back sometime during the night. I latch onto Rumi as we head down to court, the condor, anaconda, and llama at our heels. No guards trail after us. That’s a pleasant change.

  “You’re quiet,” Rumi comments.

  “I was thinking about how different this walk is compared to the first trip I ever made to court. Do you remember that day?”

  He nods. “I didn’t know what to make of you. And you were wearing one of Princesa Tamaya’s dresses. I like the outfit you’re wearing right now much better.”

  I’d chosen a simple white skirt—no ruffles—and a tunic with a low-slung leather belt. Very Illustrian, save for the vibrantly striped vest over the ensemble. The perfect blend of the girl I used to be with the girl I want to be.

  “It suits you,” he says, as if he can hear my thoughts.

  Warmth spreads deep into my belly. He smiles and pulls me closer as we continue to the great hall.

  “By the way …” Rumi begins. “There are quite a few Illustrians sleeping in the spare rooms and courtyard. Most decided to stay for Princesa Tamaya’s coronation. She gave a great speech about wanting their help in unifying Inkasisa.”

  But did she convince them? They’ve spent years living steeped in their dislike—in their desire for revenge. Princesa Tamaya has a long battle ahead of her. The process of making the nation whole will take time and energy and a strong will.

  I stop. “Can I see them?”

  Rumi smiles, gently pulling me along. “Of course—that’s why I’m telling you, you fool.”

  He laughs when I make a face. The doors to the throne room loom ahead, and I stiffen. Two sentries open the tall double doors to the great hall. As I pass by, they salute and grin wildly at the sight of my creatures trailing after me as if we’re a parade. The llama spits a woolly ball at one of their faces.

  At the foot of the room sits the princesa, a resplendent headdress with delicate gold weaving on her head. Her dark hair tumbles loosely around her shoulders.

  At my entrance, she jumps to her feet.

  “Ximena Rojas,” Tamaya says, grinning. “And company.”

  Rumi hands me the sloth and gently pushes me forward. As I walk down the long aisle, Llacsans and Illustrians drop to one knee.

  By the time I reach the dais, I’m sure my face is the color of a ripe tomato. The princesa bounds down the steps and embraces me, careful not to squish the animal in my arms. Laughing, she clutches her headdress to keep it from falling.

  Tamaya fingers the animal’s moon thread. “This is extraordinary magic.”

  “Yours is better.”

  “Is it?” She tilts her head. “Or are they both special in their own way?”

  “If you say so,” I smile. But I understand her meaning. It was never a competition.

  Her gaze drops to the animal in my arms. “Introduce me to your amigo.”

  “This is Sloth,” I say. “He’s a snuggler.”

  “Bienvenidos.” She opens her arms wide. “To all of you.”

  Catalina stands at the side of the dais, flanked by guards. She snaps her head toward the door.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat.

  “Ximena,” the princesa says. “You saved my life—you and these wonderful creatures—and I will forever be in your debt. I can’t thank you enough. You and your animals are free to live in this castillo as long as you want.”

  I duck my head. “Gracias.”

  “Will you honor me by joining my council of advisors?”

  Sitting around inside and talking all day? I make a face. “I’d rather open a shop in La Ciudad. I want to weave silly things for people to decorate their home with. Tapestries and bags, maybe even clothes one day.”

  Tamaya blinks and then lets out a resounding laugh. “Done. Anything else?”

  I glance at Catalina.

  Princesa Tamaya’s face shifts into a sad smile. “She will be given every chance,” she whispers.

  The chamberlain calls Catalina forward. She obeys, stonefaced, refusing to meet my eye.

  “Condesa …” the princesa begins. “I want to come to some sort of understanding with you. I don’t mind that you ha
te me. That is your right as a human being. But will you ever be able to accept me as your future queen? What I do mind is fighting the same fight, month after month, year after year.”

  Catalina lifts her chin. “I will not.”

  “Then you’ll drink the koka tea,” Princesa Tamaya says, and motions to one of the attendants standing by the dais.

  Catalina sways on her feet.

  “No,” I say breathlessly. “No, por favor.”

  I drop to my knees. Catalina will never beg for her life. But I have no such qualms. She needs to live—or else she’ll never have the opportunity to change. To learn. I want her to have the chance.

  The princesa hesitates. “She’s that important to you?”

  I nod.

  Princesa Tamaya’s poised and serene expression wavers. “Then I’ll spare her life, but she cannot stay here. Catalina, you are banished to the Yanu Jungle and will be escorted there immediately.”

  I gape at the princesa. The jungle? “She won’t survive. She’s been sheltered her whole life!”

  Catalina stiffens, and her lips pale.

  The princesa shakes her head. “That’s my decision.”

  I turn away, struggling for composure. Damn Catalina’s stubbornness! If only she’d relent. I stare at her, beseechingly. “Catalina … accept her as your queen. Por favor.”

  Her face hardens. “I’ll die first.”

  “I’ll let you have a moment,” Tamaya says.

  “No need.” Catalina whips around. She marches down the aisle, the guards on her heels. No words of goodbye.

  I stare at the door long after it closes behind her. “Did it have to be the jungle?”

  “I think she’ll come out the better for it,” Tamaya says thoughtfully.

  If she comes out at all. What kind of horrors will she encounter there? She’s never been left alone. But I’m not Catalina’s protector anymore. I’m not her decoy. She doesn’t even consider me her friend.

  I wrap my arms around my stomach. The condesa needs to learn how to fight her own battles—especially the ones she creates for herself.

  “I’m going to need your help in the coming months,” Princesa Tamaya says. “As you, though. Not a decoy, or anybody else.”

  My gaze lands on Rumi as he approaches the throne. Every choice has brought me to this moment, and I know in my bones that I’m meant to stand here with the rightful queen of Inkasisa, in a castillo that no longer feels like a cage but a home filled with people who are like family. Rumi smiles at me and I take a step forward, meeting him halfway. He cups my cheek. The sloth burrows deeper into my arms. The birds fly around in circles, happy and free. I can picture Luna smiling down at me.

  I’ve made the right decision.

  I’m ready to be me.

  Only me.

  QUECHUA

  Atoc—fox

  Sisa—flower

  Inkasisa—royal flower

  Suyana—hope

  Killa—moon

  Tamaya—center

  Rumi—rock

  Taruka—doe

  Sajra—evil

  Umaq—traitor

  SPANISH

  Araña—spider

  Cafe con leche—coffee with milk

  Azúcar—sugar

  Hormigas—ants

  Fuego—fire

  Girasoles—sunflowers

  Mentiras—lies

  Desayuno—breakfast

  FOOD

  Achachairu: my favorite fruit from Bolivia. It’s egg-shaped and tastes like lemonade

  Aji amarillo: yellow hot pepper

  Api: a breakfast drink made of purple maize, cinnamon, sugar, and water

  Choclo: large kernel corn from the Andes

  Cuñapes: Bolivian cheese bread made from yuca starch and queso fresco; usually served at teatime, in the afternoon

  Huacatay: cream of black mint

  Llajwa: chili sauce made of locoto, tomatoes, and onion; I add this to everything!

  Locoto: chili pepper; key ingredient in llajwa

  Maracuya: passion fruit. Drinking fruit juice in Bolivia is as popular as drinking fountain sodas, often more so. Popular choices are maracuya, durazno (peach), fresa (strawberry), and pera (pear). You can blend them with water or milk

  Marraqueta: crispy, salty bread; a breakfast staple, often topped with dulce de leche

  Mermelada: jam

  Pasankalla: puffed white maize, coated in sugar; we eat this at the movies!

  Quinoa: crop held sacred by the Incas, the “mother of all grains.” It’s our version of rice. I grew up eating it, and when it became popular in the States, I was thrilled to see it everywhere on menus!

  Salteñas: baked football-shaped empanada from Bolivia, filled with beef, pork, or chicken, raisins, peas, and exactly one black olive and boiled egg. The juice is like a stew and made with gelatin. When baked, the gelatin slowly melts and turns into a soup inside the dough

  Sándwich de chola: Bolivian street sandwich with pork, beef, or chicken

  Silpancho: popular Bolivian dish in my mother’s native Cochabamba. Base layer is white rice, followed by a layer of pan-fried potatoes, then a thin layer of breaded meat, diced tomatoes, and white onion. Topped with fried egg and parsley. A family favorite

  Singani: liquor made from white wine grapes and produced in the high valley of Bolivia

  Sopa de mani: another favorite from Cochabamba. Peanut soup served before the main meal at lunch. Usually topped with crispy potatoes sliced into thin matchsticks

  Té de maté: my mom gave this to me whenever I was sick—a bitter tea that I never warmed up to, but it’s a particular favorite in Bolivia

  Yuca frita: starchy root vegetable, often fried and dipped into sauces

  I’m going to attempt to thank everyone, but the truth is that words don’t feel big enough to demonstrate my profound gratitude. Just imagine me writing this letter to you all, with a box of tissues at my elbow, and the largest slice of carrot cake at my fingertips.

  So many hugs and heartfelt thanks to my incredibly gifted editor, Ashley Hearn. You are an absolute gem of a human being—thank you for fighting for this book. Your guidance, input, patience, and tremendous work ethic made all the difference to this story’s journey to publication. To the entire Page Street team, for all of your hard work and support: my publicists Lauren Cepero and Lizzy Mason, editorial assistants Madeline Greenhalgh and Tamara Grasty, editorial intern Kayla Cottingham, production editor Hayley Gundlach, managers Marissa Giambelluca and Meg Palmer, editor Lauren Knowles, publisher Will Kiester, and the wonderful sales team at Macmillan. To Meg Baskis, who gave me so much freedom for the cover design of Woven in Moonlight, thank you for trusting me!

  Many, many heartfelt gracias to Mary Moore, for encouraging me to write a Bolivian tale, and for finding this story a great home. To my sweet writer friends Margaret Rogerson, Adrienne Young, and Rebecca Ross for championing Woven in Moonlight and for writing the loveliest blurbs. I’m so thankful for each of you—for our friendship, manuscript swaps, and encouragement. You guys are in my bubble and always will be. Kristin Dwyer, I think the world of you, and I’m so thankful for the laughs and support. I’ll never forget our life-giving conversation in my car, while it was pouring rain, right after I screamed about that spider hiding on the steering wheel.

  Adalyn Grace, your sass gives me life. Thank you for calling me out when I ought to be writing, for the laughs, an amazing time at Disney, and for generally being awesome, supportive, and lovely. You are so wise beyond your years, and I swear you really could be a CIA agent. Joanna Hathaway and Kristin Ciccarelli, you two are such genuine, beautiful souls. I feel so proud to know you. Thank you for the love and encouragement on the earliest drafts of Woven in Moonlight. Lisa Parkin, sweet friend, I don’t know what I’d do without you! I cherish our breakfast dates and conversations about life and books. Love you!

  My incredible Pitch Wars family: the entire 2015 class, especially Megan England, Leah Mar, Jamie Pacton, Kat Hinke
l, Rebecca Mcloughlin, and Michelle Domenici. Thank you so much for reading snippets of Woven in Moonlight! Sheena Boekwreg and Megan Lally—I don’t know how I’d survive the publishing world without you both. Thank you for the many years of friendship and support, for all the wisdom, laughter, and amazing guidance. Thank you for reading everything I write, once, twice, a thousand times. Shout out to Jenni Welsh, Haley Kirkpatrick, Bridget Baker, Fiona Mclaren, for the early reads and feedback. A million thanks!

  So many hugs and thanks to my Nacho Libro/First Tuesday Club sweet friends: Brianne Kaufholz, Jessica Meyer, Samantha Robinson, Chrystal Merriam, Kristy Lee Lawley, Anna Ware, Rachel Aldrich, Melanie Snavely, and Kristin Pavlic. You all have a special place in my heart. Every wonderful writing- or publishing-related memory involves book club and all of your sweet faces.

  To my sweet friends who aren’t a part of the writing world, and for that I’m so incredibly thankful because you’ve all kept me sane: Patricia Gray, Elizabeth Sloan, Davey Olsen, Jess Pierce, and Jessica Meyer. Thank you for loving me so well, for the love, support and cheers, no matter how many all cap text messages I send (especially to Jessica, who gets them twice!). Elizabeth, thanks for reading the beginning and for making sure I sound professional in my bio. We may not have the same taste in stories, but I know you’ll love this one. <3

  To everyone who has been a part of this journey, however small—thank you! You know who you are, and I’m so thankful for every bit of support, well wishes, and encouragement. Thank you for sharing social media posts, retweeting updates and news, and showing up—virtually and in person.

  My incredible parents, you both came to this country, worked hard and gave Rodrigo and I amazing opportunities to pursue our dreams. You’ve supported and encouraged every wish I ever had, and my artistic, sensitive heart will never forget it. Mami, Ximena was named after you and there’s so much about her that was inspired by your bravery, love of family, and your passion for justice in Bolivia. I’m so proud to be your daughter. Papi, you have always believed that I’d grow up to be a writer (or a singer—but listen, you can’t have everything. Plus, I can’t sing). Mil besos a los dos, los quiero mucho.