“Not now. But it will be.” Fatyan’s free hand glided on the line of Yzabel’s shoulders, coming to a shuddering rest at the nape of her neck. “You need to heal your relationship with the blessing. Waste some food now so you can produce hundreds later. Now turn that fish and tell yourself it’s all right to do so.”
Yzabel swallowed the sickness in her throat, forced herself to grab the second fillet. The magic poured out of her, and with eyes slammed shut, she thought, You can have this, you can have this, you can have this—
The soft fragrance and buds of lavender caressed her fingertips. Heavy lids lifted, tired fingers grasped the flower, larger than its wild counterparts she gathered during Iunius and Iulius. A drop of its oil kept nightmares and anxieties at bay; enough of it over a wound would keep the flesh from festering.
Yzabel had been so fixated on not eating she’d been too obstinate to look around. Too stubborn to listen to what Brites had been telling her all along.
Fatyan’s grasp traveled to her shoulder, pinpricks of light following in a shiver, then Yzabel’s gaze. She tilted her chin, found the Moura smiling down at her, more brightly than the magic, more brightly than the stars in the darkest of nights.
“I understand now,” she said. Then to Brites, “I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you when you told me to turn as much food as I could.”
“At least you’re listening now.” Brites clicked her tongue as she scooped the narcissus paste into a glass jar. “Better late than never, I suppose.”
Yzabel returned to her meal, and although the nervousness remained, she no longer feared the waste, because she had never been cursed to waste.
She’d been blessed to transform.
Hands clasped around the cross at her chest. Holy Spirit, take what I’ve given you as appeasement. I’m sorry I doubted. But I see. I see.
Yzabel took a spoon of broth, bread, and egg, and although the magic played on her fingertips, it didn’t try to steal the food from her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, took spoonful after spoonful, even managing a few bits and pieces of boga before the familiar heat danced in her tongue.
Her first reaction was to scream at the first bite of lavender, throw a child’s temper tantrum at the unfairness of it all. All she wanted was to eat something without this happening.
But right now, lavender was as precious as that nugget of meat. Yzabel swallowed the growl as it bubbled in her throat, unlocked her jaw, and set the flower aside. The spoon grew heavier each time she took it to her lips, and black tendrils snaked around her sight. Sheer effort kept her going, and she managed half of the assorda and most of the remaining fish before nausea ripped through her stomach, too used to fasting and starving to receive anything else.
Hand on her bloated belly—laughable, how so little could feel like so much—Yzabel leaned back on her chair. “I can’t anymore.”
“Unsurprising, given how little you’ve been eating for years.” Shaking her head, Brites took the tray away and set it on the floor, where Lucas was happy to be of service. “And that’s all you’ll have until supper. Hear me, boy?”
A wagging tail and the sound of slurping were the only answer the mastiff deigned to give them. It was only fair he got what remained of the assorda, seeing that all those delicious bones had become narcissuses.
Fatyan sighed with a pitiful look at the leftovers. “Not to rain on your festivities, sweet Yzabel, but you have a long way to go still. Hopefully the springs will help it along. At least enough for you to take the ritual and come out alive.”
“I pray that they do.” Yzabel covered a yawn with a tired hand, sleep dangling on her eyelids. “Why do I feel like I’ve been awake for days? It’s only midday.”
“The sahar demands a healthy body filled with stamina. Neither of which you have.”
Even though Fatyan had meant no offense and had been merely stating a fact, even though Yzabel knew she wasn’t healthy, the declaration stung, filled her with the numbing poison of unworthiness.
Rather than let the petty misery sink her further, she honed it to determination and returned to the lurid poems and blotted numbers, re-calculating every sum. Of the many battles she waged daily, this was one she could win. She wrestled the successive yawns, the hefty eyelids, the fuzzy sight, the selfish desire to give in to sloth and rest her head on the table. Since when did hard wood appear so plush?
Sitting by the fireplace, Brites gave assertive instructions on how to make lavender oil. “The buds we use as they are, but the leaves, we have to dry—both to use them, and to keep suspicion off Yzabel, since lavender is not in season. Lucky for us, I know just the trick.”
Scissors snipped flowers, and the thrum of magic shivered in Yzabel’s ears, the familiar words of one of Brites’s spells whispering in the air. The warmth of steam, the small crackles of wilting flowers, a delightful gasp.
Fatyan’s laughter chiming behind her. Truly a beautiful sound and one Yzabel found herself clinging to as she tried to make sense of the letters in front of her.
Once Brites dried the lavender, she and Fatyan began storing it in jars for safekeeping. By the time they finished with the herbs, so had Yzabel with her papers, and as she’d told Denis, she sent Brites back for more. When her maid returned, it was with a sour expression, as well as Dom Domingos on her trail.
Fatyan, who’d come to sit beside Yzabel, straightened her shoulders, green eyes fixed on the Chancellor as his brown ones did the same on her.
“Look who I found.” Brites grunted as she came to lay the new papers on Yzabel’s desk, her tone implying that she had tried to keep him from coming.
Unease flitted in Yzabel’s belly; no one had reason to doubt that Fatyan was a nun, but Dom Domingos was a man of the cloth. If anyone could tell the difference between a sister and someone who dressed like one, it would be him.
She rose from her seat and put on her brightest smile, trying to appear unconcerned. “Dom Domingos. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Did you find anything in the documents?”
“Not yet, Your Highness,” he said as he approached, giving Brites a wide berth as he passed. Dom Domingos disapproved her choice for a lady’s maid, something Yzabel had never quite paid heed to, as all the reasons he gave for such distaste were the reasons she kept Brites in her employ. “This must be whom the Abbess sent to help you.” He turned to Fatyan. “What is your name, child?”
Yzabel tried not to look too panicked even as the goose bumps pricked her arms.
Fatyan stood to give him a full bow. “Fatyan, my lord.”
“Fatyan,” Dom Domingos repeated as if to test it, then looked at Brites from the corner of his eye. “Is there a reason as to why you’d bring a novice and not a sister?”
“I didn’t want to deprive the Carmo Convent of one of their members,” Brites answered without blinking. “And with me being so close to retiring, I thought it prudent to train someone who’s as devoted to the Lord as our princess.”
“And out of all the novices, you couldn’t find one that was less…” He stopped, attention briefly going to the ceiling as he searched for a word to settle on. “Vivacious.”
Vasco had had much the same reaction when Yzabel had emerged from the stone with the Moura. She supposed it was natural, since it wasn’t every day someone as beautiful as Fatyan graced their eyes, but as understandable as it was, she didn’t care for how they spoke of it, as if the Moura was to be doubted because she looked the way she did.
“I’m a nun,” Fatyan said, brows crunched. “What does it matter what I look like?”
Dom Domingos lowered his attention to Fatyan’s hands, folded in front of her. “There is no ring on your finger. You’ve yet to take your vows and could change your mind at any time.” He halted, a dramatic pause he often employed in his sermons. “From what I’ve been told, you’ve got plenty of suitors already.”
“The only man I’m comfortable around is our Lord Jesus Christ.” Fatyan spoke without wavering, a tight smile gracing her lips. “That will not change.”
Dom Domingos returned Fatyan’s affected smile. “Not even for a noble?”
Yzabel rotated her shoulders to mask the full-body squirm that came. This was what this was all about, concern that Fatyan would end up using her wiles to make men act like fools.
If Fatyan felt any unease at the Chancellor’s words, it didn’t show in her polite, “I assure you your concerns are woefully misplaced.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Dom Domingos, who’d taken on the look of a ferret keen on finding rabbits in a hole. The knot in Yzabel’s belly tightened as she thought of ways to end this conversation before he realized Fatyan was no novice and only here temporarily. “Dom Domingos, surely you don’t need to question Fatyan’s choices.”
He held out his hands in a gesture of mild surrender. “I apologize. It is not this novice’s intent that I doubt.” A brief glance to Brites, not bothering to hide it was her he had a bone to pick with, something he’d made no secret of after they’d arrived from Aragon.
“It’s been a few days since your last confessional, Your Highness.”
Days ago, Yzabel would’ve accepted the invitation without blinking. At the moment, however, she had more important things to take care of.
“I told him that if you wanted to confess, you’d have gone to him,” Brites said tersely.
“And I told you that I’d let the princess answer for herself,” Dom Domingos said, equally curt. “Not everyone follows your wayward ways, Brites Sande.”
The hissing with which he said Brites’s name dripped with poison, allowing Yzabel to see his reasoning all too well. He believed Brites would lead her astray, and although she wanted to tell him the reasons why Brites wouldn’t, she could not. To do so would be to admit to having magic, something Dom Domingos would not be lenient on. Not to mention that Yzabel’s most recent sins were not something she could confess to him, thus rendering the point of such a session moot.
“My apologies, Chancellor, but I fear I must decline. We have much work left to do here, and little time.” Keeping her tone gentle, she gestured to the new pile of documents Brites had brought. Still, she had to placate him somehow, lest his animosity for Brites fester further. “The Lord will understand, I think, if I delay confession in the name of seeing the matters in Terra da Moura solved as quickly as possible.”
“Of course. I understand.” He ambled to her side, black robes swishing, and placed his bony fingers on Yzabel’s shoulder. “Regardless, should your soul grow weary, remember that I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.” Remarkable, Yzabel thought, that such a feeble hand could weigh so much. Yzabel took it in hers and knelt to kiss his amethyst ring as was expected of her.
“The offer stands for you, too, Sister Fatyan,” Dom Domingos said, extending his hand Fatyan’s way. “If you’re to stay with Her Highness, my door is always open.”
The Moura kissed the ring the same way Yzabel had done. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Dom Domingos turned to leave without acknowledging Brites, and Yzabel resisted the urge to make him. Beyond impolite, it was rude, but her lady’s maid shook her head, signaling her to let him leave.
With Dom Domingos gone, Yzabel breathed deeply, but the tension did not wither. Fatyan grimaced at the Chancellor’s back; Brites had her lips thinned into a line, arms crossed over her chest. Dom Domingos lingered at the door and said something to Vasco too low for her to hear. Although the Chancellor was someone she was supposed to trust, she found herself reluctant. He disliked Brites, and always sought to undermine her at every turn.
Whatever words Dom Domingos had imparted to Vasco, Yzabel truly hoped he did not listen.
Chapter Ten
Springs
Yzabel woke to a stiff neck, a dry mouth, and a jaw crusted in drool.
Limbs and muscles groaned as she stretched and wiped at her face with her sleeve. The last wisps of the setting sun’s light clung to the edges of fabric and furniture, lining them with a faint orange glow. By the fireplace, Lucas snored, while Brites and Fatyan traded hushed questions on whether to wake her.
“You shouldn’t have let me sleep all afternoon,” Yzabel complained, a latent yawn robbing her tone of any accusation.
“You needed it. But it’s good you’re awake now.” Fatyan brought Yzabel’s mantle and draped it onto her shoulders. “They’re waiting for us at the springs.”
Right—they were going to the springs nearby, with their sacred waters that mended wounds, seen and unseen. “We have to be back before supper, though. Denis is expecting me.”
“We have time,” Fatyan assured.
Vasco awaited them in the solar, and Yzabel greeted him with a kiss to the cheek before the three of them headed out. Fatyan spent the walk between the castle and the springs pointing out the differences between the Terra da Moura it was now and the Al-Manijah it’d been before. The fountain was exactly where she remembered, except it was now decorated with carved marble as white as snow; the plaza had been remade with new pavement, the cobbled roads between houses narrow.
The light of fires burned behind closed windows, the sounds of families scattering across the air. Infants crying through mothers’ lullabies, children playing with their siblings, parents demanding silence. A group of drunkards meandered out of the closing tavern, the owner screaming at them from the doorway about how tomorrow was another working day.
Meanwhile, the gentry’s conviviality lasted into the late hours of the night, with food and drink flowing freely all evening. It seemed unfair that they could enjoy such luxury when the people who worked for them could barely unwind before curfew struck.
Halfway down the sidewalk, Yzabel paused to wipe the beads of sweat along her hairline with the back of her hand, exhaustion narrowing her sight and spinning in her head. A touch on her elbow steadied her, and she found Fatyan looking at her with concern. The Moura’s arm slipped to twine around hers, a silent offer for support that she took with a smile, leaning against Fatyan for the rest of the way.
“These also haven’t changed much,” Fatyan mused, eyes trailing along the entrance of archways and the ground paved with cobblestones. The Roman Empire had had its faults, but they certainly knew how to build lasting facilities.
Past the central arch, Vasco veered left into a vestibule operated by an old nun. He gave her a handful of billion coins. “Thank you for allowing the princess to use the baths this late.”
“My pleasure, Dom Vasco.” The woman looked beyond him, skirting the counter to come kneel before Yzabel. “It’s such an honor to receive you, Your Highness. I see the rumors of your devotion weren’t exaggerated!” the nun exclaimed with appreciation as she kissed Yzabel’s surprised hands. “You must fast often to achieve such a pure form. Truly worthy of being called Holy Princess.”
She hid her wince with a weak smile. “It’s the Lord’s will that I starve,” she said, scratching her leg through the skirts, drawing a little bit of pain to compensate for not telling the truth. “This is my new lady’s maid, Fatyan. She’ll be accompanying me inside.”
With an enthusiastic nod and more compliments, the nun gave them two towels and a bar of soap, then ushered them into the dressing room.
Fatyan was quick to kick her shoes under the wooden bench. “You have no idea how much I missed these springs,” she said, giving Yzabel a glimpse of smooth leg as she unfurled the socks.
She hurried to draw her eyes away, concentration curling her features as she folded each sock, before setting both on the shelf above their heads. Unbidden thoughts of Fatyan’s states of nakedness heated her cheeks like embers, and even though she ached to peek, she didn’t dare. It was improper, indecent, unbecoming—
“And it will help you ease up
for a little bit,” Fatyan added softly, shoving her discarded clothes next to Yzabel’s neatly folded socks. “Relaxation is what you need right now. It’ll help with the sahar, too.”
“I-I know, but…”
Hands wrenching the band wrapped around her waist, Yzabel looked at her feet, at the ceiling, at the door—anywhere but Fatyan.
“Dear Yzabel, are you embarrassed?” Fatyan asked.
That was part of it, but not all. Next to her, Yzabel couldn’t help but feel inadequate, and not just because of Fatyan’s beauty. “I’m not used to bathing in company,” she grudgingly admitted, looking up long enough to see an impish smile that was enough to give her stomach a twist.
Fatyan tied the towel under her arms. “So? You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
“That’s…not it.” Her hand went to her leg, over the cilice, jaw moving along with the grind of her teeth. It was pointless to drag this further, and after a long moment, she stilled. Exhaled. Stood a little taller. “But you’re right. It’s not befitting of me to be so cowardly.”
The cloak came off, as did the sash, the sleeveless overgown, the kirtle.
But when Yzabel shed her chemise, a gasp sounded behind her, and breathless fingers trailed over the lines on her back, some red and recent, others old and faded, leaving her shivering under their path.
“Who did this to you?” Fatyan asked, her voice hard. She skimmed her fingers farther down, where the cilice’s teeth dug into her thigh, every one of its previous bites a circle of tracks around both legs. Droplets of blood welled where it punctured red skin, a hideous contraption worn for no reason other than to suffer. “Who makes you wear this?”
Each welt the road to a painful memory, each bruise a settlement populated with inadequacy. She couldn’t bear to meet Fatyan’s gaze when she said, “I do.”
With an ethereal touch, Fatyan traced the thin, angry lines crisscrossing Yzabel’s salient ribs. “When I see these, I picture you squirming with hunger while whipping yourself.” A dry swallow ate whatever it was she was going to say next.
A Curse of Roses Page 9