“With her, yes,” Yzabel stated, unable to answer for the possessiveness from her tone. “Fatyan isn’t one of your girls.”
Denis snorted. “You think you could keep me from her if I wanted her? Either of you?” The chair groaned as he rose, the table creaked when he braced himself on it, leaning over.
Yzabel matched his stance.
He scoffed. “You’re lucky I don’t want any woman who doesn’t want me back.”
Her fingers curled. “You want praise for basic decency?”
“No.” Denis sat back down, legs crossed and hands steepled as he regarded Faty. “But I am trying to figure out why exactly she’d want to serve you.”
Fatyan’s tone was stiff. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why would you? Someone who looks the way you do would have no trouble finding a husband. Perhaps even one above your station.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Hell, half the bachelors in my court have asked me about you.”
Worry curved Yzabel’s lips into a grimace. Next to her, Fatyan’s stillness was that of death, her voice the low growl of doubtlessness. “Then you can tell them I’m not interested in marriage.”
“Then you have no ambition to use your proximity to Yzabel to climb the social ranks?” Denis asked, unconvinced eyelids narrowing with mistrust. “You’d choose a life of servitude over running your own household?”
“No, I choose a life of serving the woman who’s to be the Queen of Portugal and the Algarves over a life of serving a husband,” Faty spat. “You want to know my ambition? It’s to be free to make my own choices.”
Yzabel didn’t care for Denis’s line of questioning, or for his silent scrutiny of the Moura. “What’s the point of this?”
“The prelates swear innocence on last night’s incident, and all of them have witnesses to vouch for their whereabouts. My men have searched the rubble, inquired the neighbors, Senhor Davide and his family, and found no evidence tying the Prelates to the fire.” He gnashed his teeth, one hand coiling into a fist. “As with the town’s resources, I know they’re responsible, but have no way of proving it. We have the records of what the prelates have stolen, but we’ve turned this town upside down and haven’t been able to find the hard proof we need. Even when we do, there’s a good chance many of my vassals will stand with Terra da Moura’s gentry. They’re too used to their own power, too used to getting away with much the same.”
The nobles and the clergy were the reason why most of the Portuguese starved, and when Denis had shared his inquisitors’ reports regarding Terra da Moura being on the brink of collapse, they’d seen it as a sign it was time to intervene and change a few laws. With proof of mismanagement, Denis could take the lands away and redistribute them as he saw fit—the rest of the gentry might feel threatened and try to depose him to maintain their lavish lifestyles.
The moments stretched into a long pause, broken with a question from Faty. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“The Baron of Terra da Moura has predilections. All of which you meet. If you were to ingratiate yourself to him, he might just make the right mistake trying to impress you. You might become privy to secrets, invited to shuffle through his belongings.”
Yzabel’s heart thumped, and a shiver shuddered in her spine. “You can’t mean to whore her—”
“It’s not your choice,” Denis said with no inflection to his tone. “It’s hers. A favor for me, to prove she’s trustworthy; blackmail if she’s not.”
Fatyan’s grip on Yzabel’s hand tightened painfully. “I’ll spy for you if you give both of us free reign of the town.”
Yzabel readied herself for Denis’s outburst, for his screams and threats, but he remained neutral and unfazed. “I’ll give you the castle only. Provided Yzabel is here in time for her meals and Matias escorts you.”
“No,” Yzabel said.
“I’ll think about it,” Fatyan said at the same time.
Twisting around in her chair, Yzabel craned her neck to look at the Moura. “You don’t have to put yourself through that for my sake.”
“That’s what you say now. Give it time.” Denis let his words hang suspended in the air as he made his way out. “Matias will stay outside, so make sure you behave.”
“I want someone else,” Yzabel said. Not just because Matias had turned on Brites; Fatyan got physically ill with his nearness, and she wanted to spare her that.
Denis pierced her with his stare. “You will get no one else. Fatyan is permitted to leave to fetch anything you need, but if she lingers longer than half a chime”—he shifted his gaze to the Moura—“I will assume you’re conspiring with someone and throw you in the dungeons. I’ll be back when it’s time for dinner.”
“Wait!” Pushing through the lump in her throat, Yzabel asked, “What about Vasco’s funeral? We might not have a body, but—”
“We’ll keep looking until we find him.” His hand lingered on the door, and his next words came out with some hesitant difficulty. “If we don’t, we’ll hold a service in his memory once our investigation concludes.”
She didn’t know she’d been tense about it until then, but there was relief to know Vasco would have some form of funeral, even without a body to bury. Denis didn’t deserve a drop of gratefulness, not when he was the reason Brites rotted in a dungeon, but the seed bloomed nonetheless. She hated him for tugging at her strings in such a manner.
In a mournful susurrus, Denis added, “He was my friend long before he was yours. I mourn his death, too.”
It wasn’t a lie. She hated him for that, too.
Once he was gone, Fatyan sank against the chair across from Yzabel. “And you said he was good.”
“I betrayed his trust. He’s right to be angry.” Her tongue embittered at the defense that came so naturally to her. Denis didn’t deserve her excuses, either.
Shaking her head, Yzabel picked up one of the many pieces of bread on the tray. So easy to keep it from becoming a rose, and what should’ve filled her with joy brought yet another pang to her chest. Another one of her shortcomings Vasco would never see overcome.
She hated he wasn’t here to see her in control. She…
“Just because Vasco’s not here doesn’t mean he isn’t watching,” Fatyan said softly.
“I know.” Yzabel blew her nose on her napkin and lifted a queijada toward the ceiling. “To you, Vasco. May the Lord forever keep you in His arms.”
The sweet richness of the small cake spread cinnamon and sugar on her mouth; oddly, there was comfort to be taken in that—a superficial sort that lasted only seconds, but as fleeting as it was, she cherished it. It was better than the emptiness rumbling in her heart, at least, and she reached for a second tart while finishing the first, stuffing her face so she wouldn’t have to feel her ravenous sorrow.
“Slow down before you choke!” Faty admonished, but the laughter in her tone stole any credence her warning might’ve had.
Yzabel took gulps of wine to wash down the tartlets. “The food makes it better, and for the first time since forever, I can eat without worrying. Let me have this.” She reached for a third queijada, moaning as the sweetness broke apart in her mouth.
“Still, it’s good practice to chew,” Faty pointed out.
“I am chewing!”
She was most definitely not, but her blushing denial drew laughter to Fatyan’s lips. “Yes, like a rabbit munching on grass.”
“Rabbits are adorable, so…” She shrugged, but the haughtiness she’d invoked slipped with a tap on her nose.
Faty’s radiant smile blinded her, and the wistfulness of her voice filled Yzabel’s ears with its softness. “That, they are.”
The cinnamon of the queijadas sitting on her tongue brought back the memory of their kiss, the hint of spices, the shortness of breath. Cheeks flushed, Yzabel realized she’d forgotten to swallow, so s
he did it then, hid herself behind the glass of wine as she drained it in small gulps. Denis hadn’t been so cruel as to bring food for just himself and Yzabel, at least, and she motioned to the table, berating herself for her inconsideration. “Don’t let me eat all of this.”
She nibbled on the almond tosquiados, the crispy shell melting on her tongue until Fatyan finished eating as well. A few slices of bread and cheese remained; Fatyan pushed them her way. “Go on. Turn them into flowers, then try to turn them back.”
With her right hand in Fatyan’s, Yzabel picked up bread with the left.
“Flowers won’t trigger the sahar as food does,” Fatyan said. “You’ll have to do it yourself.”
Eyes closed, Yzabel pictured the light traveling to her fingertips.
“Well done.” Fatyan’s fingers brushed against Yzabel’s. “Now, as you direct the magic, grab the image you have of bread turning to roses, and picture it backward.”
Yzabel directed the threads of magic toward her hand, to the rose, imagined it glowing and transforming into bread. A hopeful gasp parted her lips when the magic jumped to the rose, encompassing it in its bright light.
“Please,” she whispered, pouring more of the gift into the flower. It shone brighter, so bright she couldn’t bear to look directly at it anymore, brighter than the fire, brighter than—
It burned.
With a loud yelp, Yzabel dropped the glowing rose. Absent her touch, the light turned to flame, the rose scattering into ashes. The pain in her hand small against the anger building in her chest, her limbs—
“You lost your patience and used too much.” Faty gently turned Yzabel’s hand, inspected the searing line along the length of her palm. Warm breath coated it with tingling as Faty blew on it, and the entirety of Yzabel’s being shuddered when the Moura placed a kiss upon it.
“Better?” Faty asked.
She couldn’t feel any pain anymore, agitated as she was. “Y-yes.”
The fact that Yzabel couldn’t forget Fatyan’s kiss, that it had left an imprint in Yzabel’s head, that her thoughts always strayed back to that moment before realizing they were already there, beneath her eyelids, the ghost of it on her lips.
Putting her trembling heart out of mind, Yzabel turned all her concentration on turning bread to roses, and roses to bread.
Chapter Sixteen
Hidden Stories
Three days into her entrapment, Yzabel couldn’t stand the smell of flowers anymore. Aside from the meals shared with Denis, every waking moment was spent trying to turn roses into bread, then screaming and growling when she failed to do so. The floral scent smothered chambers that seemed to grow smaller with every failed attempt, the walls tighter, the ceiling lower. She went to the window, but the outside air was stale when filtered through that tiny square. No space for her to breathe, and she couldn’t—
“Let me out!” Yzabel shouted, rapping at the door. “Matias, I know you’re there! I need fresh air.”
Her fists bruised on the unyielding wood, that accursed barrier standing between her and the outside. The lock turned, and a hard shove against the door threw her backward; balance lost, she fell on her bottom, and before she could get up, Matias was there, looming over her with a dissatisfied grimace.
“Your Highness, it’s not safe for you to be out.”
“I don’t care,” she replied as she got to her feet. Matias could intimidate her, but she knew his threats were moot—he wouldn’t lay a hand on her. “I’m going out for a walk.”
Faster than she could blink, Matias grabbed Fatyan by the hair, shoving her on the carpet at Yzabel’s feet and holding her down with a knee to the small of her back. Steel slid against leather; the cold bite of the knife pressed against Faty’s cheekbone. “The king said I could hurt her if you did not comply, Your Highness.”
“He would not!” Doubt quickened her breath and shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t.”
“He would.” A hand tried to push into Fatyan’s mouth to hold her still. She sunk her teeth into it, and Matias screamed, banged her head against the floor—Fatyan’s eyelids shivered, dazed before slamming shut, a movement echoed by her teeth. She bit again, seemingly keen on taking a finger if it was the last thing she did.
“Fine, I don’t need to get out.” When Matias made to slam Fatyan’s head again, Yzabel threw her hands between the Moura and the floor, screaming, “Stop this. Right. Now!”
The outburst stunned Matias into stillness and Fatyan into releasing his hand. He let go, but not before sinking his knee farther into her spine one last time. “Sahiqa scum.”
“Don’t use words you don’t know, you ass-face hiding in plain sight,” she spat back, crawling to her knees. “I can’t believe you came out of Brites.”
Yzabel stood between them, holding a hand to Matias’s chest when he tried to make for Faty again. As evenly as she could, she asked, “Have you talked to your mother? How is she?”
Matias’s sourness remained on the downturn of his lips. “She’s my mother in name only. I’ve no reason to listen to her vile spewing.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not the woman you think her to be. It’s not just using the Caraju; she has a sickness she hides, a dangerous thing that perverts everyone around her.” He slid a harsh look at Faty. Both his and her fingers trembled with antagonism, as if they were under the influence of opposing forces. “The same sickness this one has.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yzabel said, dismissive. Fatyan couldn’t even die, so by logic, she couldn’t be sick.
“You may not believe me, Your Highness, but I speak the truth. They carry the sihaq, both of them.” His heavy brow lowered, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with a rumbling growl.
Sihaq? Yzabel racked her mind for a definition, but among all her knowledge of medicine, she couldn’t remember coming across such a malady.
Faty, on the other hand, furrowed her brow, a glint of something shaking in her eyes. “Where would you have heard of that?”
A humorless chuckle. “You’re not the first Enchanted Moura I’ve met.” He turned to Yzabel. “I know the king doesn’t believe it, but I know what she is. My mother and her friend have been trying to free every Enchanted Moura out there for years now. And they sometimes mentioned one who was trapped in Terra da Moura since—”
“Enough!” Yzabel commanded as a shudder traveled up her spine, the stab of betrayal slicing her heart anew. Brites had kept so many things from her, things she wouldn’t be able to ask while she was trapped in her room and Brites in the dungeons. Matias wouldn’t rattle her until she heard the answers from Brites herself. “You can return to your post.”
He gave her a nod, but before he left, he stopped on the door’s threshold to look over his shoulder, dark eyes meeting Yzabel’s. “Ask her, Your Highness. Ask her about the disease, and what it makes her do.”
She waited for the door to close and the lock to turn. Though they’d hidden the flowers in the drawers of the lady’s maid chamber, their scent drenched the room still, sickening and sweet, but she made herself calm down, inhale deeply. “What does he mean by disease? What is this…” The unfamiliar word rolled awkwardly off her tongue, “Sihaq?”
“It’s a…term from my time. Used to refer to women who find men unappealing.” Faty crossed her uneasy arms over her chest, blew the air out of her puffed cheeks. “But it’s as much of an illness as disliking olives.”
Yzabel blinked her confusion. “So it’s a matter of taste? Why would he claim it a disease? And the name he called you…”
“Sahiqa. It’s…what you call someone who carries the sihaq. As for why he’d claim it a disease…” Faty shook her head with a snort. “Men take personal offense when a woman identifies as a sahiqa. They’re so used to being the center of attention that when a woman doesn’t see it the same way, it’s because they must be sic
k.”
Yzabel’s head spun, and it took her a few breaths to gather all the threads together. She’d never found any man desirable. Even her betrothed, who had so many hearts fluttering, failed to affect her own, and she’d always assumed the starvation and bodily penances had numbed her to desire. And men did like to make everything about themselves. God knew Denis had made her reluctance to eat all about himself as well.
Matias claimed Brites had the same condition—if that were true, then why had she never told her? Why had she never told Yzabel of the possibility that she might be affected by this sihaq as well? Did she think her too weak to bear the knowledge she’d never want her betrothed in that way, so she’d chosen to keep her in ignorance?
A hesitant frown tugged at her brow as she asked, “Do you think I carry it, too?”
Faty regarded her intently for a long moment, eyelids falling and rising in the slowest of blinks, arms unfolding to drop at her side. Yzabel’s heart drummed in her ears; her breath dried in her mouth. The howling wind fell to a murmur in the background, the dive of raindrops mute on the glass window. The quietude stretched, drowning her in anticipation as Faty came closer.
Closer.
Gliding toward her with soundless footsteps, hair as black as the habit she still wore like an inky mantle around her shoulders. She had one of those looks again, where teeth ever-so-slightly trapped a corner of her lower lip, the slightest of lines marring her brow, an intent squint holding her eyes ajar.
In the end, Faty gave her three words only.
“I don’t know.”
Chapter Seventeen
Paranoia
The days started to blend together in an interminable haze of failure and frustration.
She woke up next to Faty, and they changed out of their nightclothes. Denis came in the morning, and while Yzabel ate, Faty would leave to store more wood by the fireplace, empty the chamber pot. Refill the room’s jug of water. Every time, she’d return with wearier eyes and leave with unease scrunching her shoulders. The men kept bothering her, and although Faty brushed it away, the discomfort was evident in her grimaces. After some insistence on Yzabel’s part, Fatyan began to take Lucas with her, initial fear offset by how effective a deterrent the dog was.
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