Impassive, Faty slid her a look from the corner of her eye. “Are you still afraid of me?”
Yzabel winced, the question stabbing at her as effectively as any knife. “If there’s anyone I was afraid of, it was myself. I acted in confusion, and I hurt you.”
“You did.” Her legs kicked small waves on the water. “But I should’ve known better than to push you. Or to run.”
“But you were right. I did want it.” She wanted it still, so strongly and desperately she had to hug her knees to her chest to keep herself from crumbling.
“Yza…to force someone’s hand, even if they want it deep down, is forcing them nonetheless. You weren’t ready.” A long, silent look passed between them that ended when Faty sighed. “You still aren’t.”
She was unable to deny it. Brites’s words sounded in her head, urged her to take the leap, to say what was in her heart. But it was one thing to realize her love for Faty wasn’t wrong, or that they weren’t the only ones; another entirely to accept it for herself and ask for it in return. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Faty turned to her, took Yzabel’s cheek in her hand. “I was selfish, demanding that you love me as I love you. I was selfish when I tossed aside your friendship as being less-than when it’s not.” Tears shimmered in her green eyes. “That’s what I realized when I was trapped here, listening to you every day. I know you love me. I know we both want something else, but if friendship is all you can give me, then it’s all I’ll take, because I’d rather be your friend than be nothing to you at all.”
It was everything Yzabel could ask for, offered without her voicing anything. Her body was already moving when her mind caught up, and she was already hugging Faty again, who silently allowed her to nestle into her. The curve of her neck was the perfect cradle to Yzabel’s face, her arms the perfect home. Yzabel’s chest seemed to be expanding, her rib cage too small, too tight for all the feelings spiraling inside her. “I missed you. So much.”
“I missed you, too,” Faty said. “I even missed your bear-wolf-thing.”
Yzabel giggled, remembering that time passed differently here and Lucas was probably sitting in her chambers, waiting for them to pop out of the stone. “Then you’ll stay with me?”
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
The scent of almonds and magic took root in her nose. Yzabel inhaled it deeply, nodding against Faty’s warm neck. “Thank you.”
Not the words she wanted to say—but they were the only ones she had. “You do realize you’ll have to kiss me if we’re both to get out?”
“I do.” She lifted her head to meet Fatyan’s gaze. “We should make it one worth remembering.”
Pressure tingled on Yzabel’s lips in the wake of Faty’s fingers. “Every kiss shared with you is worth remembering.”
Her heart burst with tender warmth, the truth resounding in her memories, where the memory of every kiss with Faty had been imprinted. She smiled as she leaned forward, noses brushing, and against Fatyan’s mouth, she whispered, “Freedom from the stone or not, whether I can show it or not, I promise that my heart will always hold love for you.”
The heat of Fatyan’s strained breath, of words murmured back, of a kiss, gentle and unhurried. The stone’s tether snapped, and as the current of magic swept the ground from under them, Yzabel pulled Fatyan closer, desperate to taste more, to feel more, for this kiss to never end and for reality to never come. Their lips remained locked as they emerged, and although Yzabel never wanted to let go, she stepped away.
They were in her rooms in Estremoz, with Lucas jumping at Yzabel, whining with relief. Outside, the first rays of sunlight painted the dark horizon with orange hues. A cold wind trailed inside from the still-open window, the wet marks of the storm scattered along the floor and curtains. Yzabel headed toward it, meaning to shut it, but her hand stopped cold on the frame when she looked toward the town. Over in the less-fortunate part of town, smoke rose from a house close to the wall, a sight that froze the breath on her lungs.
“Matias said he was going to set Brites’s old house on fire and have it framed as divine punishment. That he would use that to kill me.” The words left her slowly, like a confession. “Why burn it empty, though?”
“That goat-face, shit-eater of a Benzedor.” Fatyan’s footsteps as she approached the sill were like her voice, rushed and angry. “So that’s how he’s going to play this.”
Yzabel blinked and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That house wasn’t empty.” Fatyan scratched at the wooden window frame, marked each conclusion with a tap. “You might’ve foiled a detail in his scheme, but he can still go ahead with the rest. He doesn’t need your body to frame Brites, not if he’s desperate enough and can stand the pain of an amputation or four. If push comes to shove, he can always use a pig’s to make up the torso that’s missing.”
His limbs grew back, echoed Brites in Yzabel’s head.
“If Brites’s house burns while there are either pig or human bones inside, Dom Domingos and Court will tie her to this fire like they tried to in Terra da Moura,” Yzabel completed. She could picture his grand arguments and gestures while he made his case before Court. “They’ll claim it was dark magic gone awry, and I won’t have a choice but to give myself up to save her.”
“Or you’ll make a mistake while clearing Brites’s name. Yusef—Matias, as he calls himself now—won’t have to kill you if the Portuguese do it themselves.” Fatyan’s gaze hardened with resolution. “This won’t end until we’re dead, or he is.”
Arguing against that was impossible. Yzabel had heard the spite in his voice, seen vengeance burn in his gaze, felt cruelty in his actions. His prolonged life stemmed from anger so deep, it seemed to have tainted everything in his life. Still, it wasn’t a knife through his heart or poison in his cup that they needed. “The only way for him to die is for you to forgive him. Until then, there’s nothing we can do.”
“I can’t just forgive him like that.” Fatyan snapped her fingers. “And it has to be genuine, meaning I have to look at the man who stole my life, who used me not once, but twice, bound himself to me without my consent, and let that sight overcome me with enough pity and selflessness, I voice the emotion. You couldn’t forgive your sahar when you thought it evil—how can I do the same to someone who truly is?”
“You said you’d given up on hating him and your father. Surely it can’t be hard to—”
“Giving up on hate isn’t the same as forgiveness,” Fatyan cut Yzabel off with a hiss. “And even if I could forgive Yusef for putting me in the stone, I can’t so easily forgive him for trying to kill you. Or for doing everything in his power to make your life miserable.”
“Then work on it, like I had to work on my gift,” Yzabel argued softly. “Meanwhile, we have to put you somewhere. I doubt you want to spend the day stuck in my rooms—”
“I’m not leaving you alone. Not with Yusef around and out to kill you.” Fatyan looked at her from over her proud nose. “I’ll pose as a castle maid today and wait until night to behead him. We can ask the convent to hide his infant self, and I’ll pass as him until we have time to think of something better.”
In Yzabel’s chest, something tightened and softened all at once. “You hate taking a man’s form.”
“Even more so when it’s the form of a man you hate. But I will do it if it keeps you safe.” Faty’s hands settled on Yzabel’s shoulders, and her voice steadied. “And Yza, think. He can’t harm you or spread lies about Brites if he’s a baby. My sahar lets me sense danger. He can’t ambush you if I’m around, and neither will he be able to recognize me.” She brushed Yzabel’s cheek. “Trust me. I can do this.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Yzabel took Faty’s hand from her face and held it, the irrational fear that she’d be alone again if she let go. “What if Yusef finds you and puts you inside another stone and I can’t
find you again? Or someone else notices you’re not a castle maid?”
“I’ll get out of it and change into someone else. And if Yusef is the one to do it, you can be certain I’ll be ripping his head from his neck before he can curse me again. Whoever’s there can see him turn into an infant and label him as a demon child.” Fatyan shrugged. “Works out well, too.”
The thought of plotting someone’s demise sat on Yzabel’s stomach like acid, but try as she might, she couldn’t think of a better alternative. And Fatyan was right about Yusef being unable to do harm if he was reduced to a crying infant.
At long last, Yzabel allowed herself a nod. “You need a uniform,” she said while fishing out an older cloak from the closet. “It will be downstairs, in the laundry room.” She held onto the wool when Fatyan made to take it. “The other servants will be up by now.”
“And have the bear-wolf ready in case Yusef comes in and tries anything.” Fatyan tied the cloak around her neck and tugged on the cowl. “Don’t leave until I’m back.”
Yzabel nodded, hand on Lucas’s head. “Don’t let them catch you.”
“Yza, please.” Faty rolled her eyes, changing their color to brown halfway into the motion. Her face rounded, her nose shortened, her brows arched, and when she next spoke, her voice was higher pitched. “You’re talking to someone who pried secrets from prelates and slipped evidence into their boots. I’ll be fine.”
She had done those things, had she not? And so secretly that no one, not even Yzabel, had noticed until the results had been shoved in front of her face. Now she could only nod and watch as Fatyan slipped silently out the door and into the castle. The aftermath was different. She had a name for the sweet clenching in her womb, for her shortness of breath, for the way her tongue ran over tingling lips to relive that teasing taste of cinnamon. Before, she’d been starving. Now, she starved still. She would always be starving.
In freeing Fatyan, she’d traded one hunger for another.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dire Consequences
Not half a chime later, Yzabel finished changing into her regular clothes and the hinges on the door to Yzabel’s room screeched. Dread whispered between her shoulder blades, and every hair on her neck stood on end as she jumped from the bed, clicking her tongue so Lucas would know to stay alert. Yusef stepped inside the room, and although her thoughts were running, her body wouldn’t move while her dog crouched in front of her, teeth bared, growl rumbling.
Buy time. She had to buy time before Faty arrived, and to appear brave, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Come to finish your job?”
He smirked, scoffed, and said, “Good. We’re not going to pretend last night didn’t happen.”
“It’s hard to feign levity when someone tries to kill you,” Yzabel hissed, hand on the back of Lucas’s neck. “Why would you be here, if not to do what you couldn’t yesterday?”
“The king has sent me to fetch you.” Yusef’s large, calloused hand held open the door, while his other beckoned at her in the smuggest gesture she’d ever beheld. “He thought you’d like to hear the case Dom Domingos is making against that old shrew.”
Yzabel’s breath hitched, but she made herself stay put and calm. The house hadn’t even stopped smoking, and they were already set on using that event for their nefarious purposes. “And you can what, stab me behind my back as soon as I approach you?” She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere near you.”
The look he gave her was of pure arrogance, his short, low laugh even more so. “Why would I kill you when the Portuguese will do that of their own volition?”
Yzabel retreated until the back of her knees hit the bed. “What have you done?”
“What fun would it be to tell you?” He gestured for her to leave again. “Call off the hound, Princess. And keep your sahar to yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together as she debated her options. Yusef could very well be lying about Denis sending him to get her and be leading her into a trap instead. Her gift had been exposed, and there was a chance he’d told her betrothed. There was a chance he hadn’t, too, as Denis had dismissed the stories about Enchanted Mouras outright. It made sense the king would dismiss this one as well, if the idea were presented without proof.
If she went, Matias might push her into a dark corner and kill her. But if he were telling the truth about Dom Domingos making a case against Brites, Yzabel could not stay behind and let him poison the room without resistance.
“Walk in front of me,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll follow.”
Mercifully, Matias did not argue. With him in the lead, they left the royal chambers and crossed the cloister’s archways, then came into a Great Hall fallen into dissent. Tables with assorted breads, cheeses, meats, and wine had already been set up by the servants, and after making sure Matias was several feet away, Yzabel stood on her tiptoes to look at the circle of prelates talking to her betrothed, with the Chancellor-Mor at their center.
“How else do you explain the bread, Your Majesty?” Dom Domingos asked, dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a kerchief. “Many of the people said they found it at their door the morning before. The churches have also reported the same, as has the hospice, only with them, it’s much more. At least a dozen loaves.”
Hugging her mantle closer, Yzabel looked at a smug Matias over her shoulder and drifted to her seat beside Denis. Goose bumps rose on every inch of her skin, and ugly suspicion quaked in her insides as she sat. She made a nonchalant show of filling her waiting glass with water and taking a drink while her gaze flitted along the crowd, hoping to find Faty in her disguise. Which she realized was silly—Fatyan and Yusef could feel each other’s nearness, always had. The only reason Fatyan would be in the same room as him would be to ambush him, and she would not be doing that in front of an entire Court.
“It is the very behavior of a witch! It’s their fado to follow the Devil across the streets at night, and to keep her soul, she must pass through seven churches and seven fountains before the sun rises. Because Estremoz does not have such a number of either, she leaves the bread to appease the Devil’s hunger, inviting him to feast on those families. And in addition to that her own son saw her the night this started, only to be chased off by crows! And last night, when he went to the house that is rightfully his”—Dom Domingos pointed to his right, to where Matias stood, jaw set, eyes somber, without stopping his tirade—“Guarda Real Matias found a woman there, with blood on her hands and a body at her feet, using dark forces to make bread out of human flesh. Dark forces she used against him before he could confront her, giving her time to flee.”
Yzabel clutched the arms of her chair, knuckles white, nails shredding against the wood. She had to put a stop to this, to come up with an argument that would both cast doubt on Matias’s testimony and keep Brites safe.
Gathering her privilege and nerve, weapons she despised but had to use nonetheless, Yzabel turned to Dom Domingos with a haughty tilt to her chin. “Brites joined the convent as soon as we arrived at Estremoz. Did you ask the sisters for their testimony?”
The Chancellor-Mor halted, his surprise at being questioned by the princess evident in his rapidly blinking eyes. “Well, yes—and they swore on the Bible she’d been there all night. But nuns protect each other, Your Highness.”
“And Matias has admitted to me that he has a vendetta against his mother,” Yzabel said, a current of anger lifting her voice and directing her gaze to the culprit. Yusef beheld her like a rabbit caught in an ever-tightening trap, one of his raised eyebrows daring her to keep going. “It’s his word against an entire convent’s, and yet it’s him you choose to believe.”
“You did say you hadn’t seen the woman’s face clearly,” Denis finally intervened, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Couldn’t it have been someone else?”
Dom Domingos grunted. “Please
, Your Majesty. Matias’s loyalty has been proven twice over. The same can’t be said for Brites, or her friends at the convent, who enable her witchery.”
And there it was. Jaw hard, Yzabel kept her eyes firmly on Dom Domingos, regretting that she’d ever considered him an ally. Regretting that she’d let him poison her own mind, as he wanted to do with everyone else’s.
“Why must you blame a witch? Wouldn’t it make more sense if it were someone distributing their household’s surplus of food? A benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous, so they do it during the night, when avoidance is easier?”
A slow nod. “Could be, Your Highness. But every person who has the means to do it swears it’s not them. We asked the baker, too, but they say they haven’t leftover bread to give. Food doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.”
She frowned at his condescension. “So someone is feeding the poor, and you have no idea who it is. I fail to see the issue here.”
“If it’s not her and her dark magic, then how?” He swept his arm in a grand, theatrical gesture, addressing the room. “Then where else could the bread be coming from? The baker says no one is buying more. I assume your kitchen hasn’t increased their bread production, either. However it’s being made, it’s through no conventional means.”
“You are very firm on this witch idea,” Yzabel commented dryly.
“Because she is one.” Dom Domingos turned to Denis without pausing. “I was the bishop overseeing this region before His Majesty asked me to become his Chancellor-Mor. Her fame was already of note back then, as someone that people—especially girls—went to in times of need.”
“Using herbs is not witchery, prelate, and neither is a house catching fire,” Yzabel spoke as flatly as she was able—not much, since Dom Domingos’s words incensed her to the point she decided to goad him. “Unless you want to call me a witch as well? I do make plenty of salves for the hospice, after all.”
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