A dozen sets of puffy eyes stared at her. A hawk-nosed sister with sharp cheeks patted the shoulder of the one sitting next to her. “See, Zaida? She came. Like Brites said she would.”
“Princess Yzabel.” Zaida lifted her head, her features lined only with sorrow, not age. The moment their eyes met, an entire conversation passed between them, unspoken. Enchanted Mouras didn’t grow older than the age they were cursed at, and Yzabel would never look older than her seventeen years. This, a convent, was what waited her in the future. And before that, she’d have to find a way to hide her preternaturally young appearance. Matters to worry about later—she had some years to figure out how to deal with agelessness, and only today to help Brites.
That was why Yzabel had come, thus she rushed forward and took the nun’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to find its way to Brites.”
“She said you’d say that.” Zaida’s rosebud lips curved into a smile—she had a doll’s round features, skin of lovely bronze, eyes brown specked with gold. “We said she didn’t have to go with them. That we’d make Dom Domingos get an order from the Pope, which is the same as saying he can go put himself behind the setting sun.” She squeezed Yzabel’s palms. “But she said she had to buy you time for you to do what you had to do. That you’d save her.”
A sister sighed. “All this over bread being given away.”
“And now they’ll hang poor Brites for it,” another lamented. “They said taking her to the dungeons was a preventive measure, but we know how these things end when you’re like us. Domingos despised many of us before we joined. He holds those grudges still, and twisting the Court’s opinion is playtime for someone as short-sighted as him.”
“It’ll be one night, then another, then another, and another,” Zaida added. “And with Yusef back to remembering himself, Brites will rot in that dungeon until they find you.”
“I know. That’s why I came,” Yzabel said, and rose, steeling herself with a breath before telling the room, “I’m the one giving away the bread.”
The sisters exchanged looks, none of which bore any surprise, followed by shrugs. “We know,” Zaida said. “About your gift, too.”
Short-lived confusion blinked in Yzabel’s eyes. “Everyone here knows you’re an Enchanted Moura, don’t they?”
“Not just me. Many of us in this convent have been blessed by the Holy Spirit,” Zaida explained, a hint of humor sneaking past her grief, and nodded to the two nuns at her sides. “Sister Maria can make sugar from salt, make exotic spices out of dust. Sister Edúlia can keep the rats from the stores with nothing but a sweep of her broom. I can change water into any beverage I desire. Small miracles, at the edge of our fingertips, that we practice away from prying eyes and behind locked doors.”
Yzabel’s marvel flitted between Edúlia and Maria, awe wide in her eyes. “You two as well? How many of us are there?”
“Five in this room. Twelve in this convent—thirteen, if you count Brites,” Sister Zaida said. “And so many more, spread around the world.”
“But Your Highness”—Sister Maria took Yzabel’s left hand, where the gift burned the strongest—“when we find each other, we help each other. It’s the only way people like us can survive.”
Yzabel could scarcely believe it. “Why didn’t Brites tell me you were all here?”
Sister Zaida drew an arm around Yzabel’s shoulders. “She was waiting for you to come around on the blessings of the Holy Spirit. Then those things happened in Terra da Moura, and she couldn’t.”
“That’s why people like us often end up in places like this,” Edúlia softly said. “We have little choice, when so many outside these walls misunderstand our gifts.”
She looked down at her hands, at the magical light twinkling in her breast. Her great-aunt’s story played in her thoughts, of the miracle Erzsébet performed when caught doing the very same thing Yzabel did—feeding bread to the poor and needy. Yzabel had drawn the parallel before, when she’d believed her gift to be a curse, thinking it was a fate she had to run from. Now, she realized it was a fate she had to run to. Maybe that was yet another reason the Lord had entrusted Yzabel with her power. Should a queen put her mind to it, she could convince an entire country to pay equal devotion to all aspects of the Holy Trinity. Another responsibility for her to shoulder, and one she was willing to.
“That’s why I want to give them a miracle,” she said. “With the whole town watching, I want to show them a miracle of roses.”
“You mean to be caught,” Zaida gasped. “Yzabel…”
It was the one way to lift every bit of suspicion from Brites, the one way to save at least one of them from a terrible fate.
“And miracles are dangerous things, Princess. Open to interpretation.” Sister Maria’s lips pursed into a bloodless line.
“Maria is right.” Zaida’s grave eyes looked straight into Yzabel’s. “If it goes the other way and they think it a demonic occurrence, they won’t simply kill you. They’ll trepanate you first, so they can say they tried to exorcise you when your country demands an answer.”
A shiver racked her body at the mention of such a practice. Barbaric, to say the least, and a last-ditch effort to rid a mind of demonic influences. Even if she survived it, she wouldn’t be the same after. No one was.
“I’ll take the risk,” she declared, and launched into an explanation. The sisters listened intently, periodically interrupting her to ask questions. In the end, they accepted Yzabel’s request without struggle, but much worry.
“Meet us at São Francisco after morning mass. We’ll take care of everything else,” Sister Zaida was saying as she and the others accompanied Yzabel out. “Do you have a preference for flowers?”
“Estevas are very useful. Pansies, too.” Yzabel halted briefly. “But anything you can get, I’ll be able to use.”
“We’ll join you, all of us,” Sister Edúlia added. “And we’ll ask some of the padres in the church. Augusto and José will definitely come, at least.”
“Padres Augusto and José are like us, too?”
“The Lord’s magic is everywhere,” Zaida said, kissing Yzabel’s cheek goodbye. “Especially in His most loyal followers.”
…
That evening, Yzabel sat at the table’s head in the Great Hall, ears scintillating with the music of lutes and verses of song. Some of the nobles danced to the troubadour’s tunes, and from time to time, Yzabel would find Fatyan in her castle maid’s disguise to see the person behind that mask of flesh and bone. It could be the agua-pá getting to her head, but all she could think about was that night in Terra da Moura, and the overwhelming feelings that had arisen. And she knew Faty wanted the same as she did, saw it in her lingering gaze, felt it in her lingering touches.
This time, however, Faty wouldn’t take the lead. It was up to Yzabel, and Yzabel had other duties to place before her selfish desires. Though she’d already accepted that there was nothing wrong with craving Faty, her first duty was to her betrothed, and she couldn’t be with Faty in that way without seeing to her promises first. Yzabel turned to Denis, intent on asking his plans for the night, but he was as aloof as she was, staring somewhere to the left—she followed it with a squint, to the dancing floor, to Aldonza. Although she was too far for Yzabel to discern her expression, the pang in her chest she got from seeing Denis’s face was enough.
Yzabel wasn’t the only one in love with someone she wasn’t promised to.
Gently, she lay her hand on Denis’s arm, and said, “She loves you, you know.”
He regarded her with quizzical lines on his forehead, eyebrows low. “You know about that?”
“For some time.” With a parting smile, Yzabel kissed him on the cheek. “Go see her. You deserve that happiness.”
Yet as she spun to leave, he grabbed her hand, and looked up at her with hesitant eyes. “Yzabel, I have t
o ask you something, and I know it might be hard to answer truthfully, but…”
Her heart thumped painfully, and for a moment, she was afraid the red on his cheeks was of rage. But he seemed to have trouble looking at her and kept stumbling over his words.
“Do you, um… How to put this? Are you, um… In Terra da Moura, when you, you know, had that psychotic breakdown…” After several failed attempts, he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and blurted out, “Was it because you were in love with Fatyan?”
The blunt question hit her like a punch to the gut. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. Her breath matched her pulse, fast and shallow.
That was all the answer Denis needed. His fingers stiffened, and she readied herself for whichever violence, whichever disgust he would throw at her. Yet he did the worst possible thing of all: rose from his chair and wrapped her in an awkward hug. “It’s fine. It’s fine,” he said, hiding her face against his shoulders, patting her on the back. Anyone who looked would see the scene exactly for how it was, a king comforting his future wife.
“How are you not angry?” she asked, trembling. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been in and out of brothels since I was thirteen and seen everything that goes along with it. Including women who were like that. And you were…different with that girl. I had my suspicions then, but it wasn’t until you came to me that night that I was sure.” He pushed her away just slightly. “I’m no hypocrite, Yzabel. If being with a woman makes you happy, you can. At least this way I’ll know to have reason to worry if you show up pregnant and it wasn’t me, because you won’t be able to surprise me with dangerous infidelities.”
Yzabel would’ve laughed if she weren’t so shocked, and if acid guilt weren’t churning in her belly. It had taken so much heartache for Yzabel to accept that part of herself, and Denis did it without a blink. Why not tell him of the part she hid from him still?
But she couldn’t, not until tomorrow. He couldn’t know what they planned to do or appear partial when the time came to judge her. He had to be as unaware of everything as the people she would rely on.
She dove into his chest and hugged him as hard as she could. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“I understand why you’d keep this a secret.” He held her back, one hand brushing the back of her hair. “And we can’t go back down south now, but if you want to send for Fatyan, you can. Or we can return after we’re married and tell her yourself.” He cupped her cheek when they parted. “You deserve that happiness, too.”
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it with all she was.
Tonight, Denis would be with someone who loved him.
And all Yzabel had to do was tell Faty she loved her, and maybe, she could have the same.
As soon as she left, Fatyan followed her under the castle maid’s guise. Out of the hall, past the cloister, and into the corridor, the silence between them thickening Yzabel’s tongue, reverberating in every step, lurking behind every door.
When they reached the solar, Yzabel still didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks had grown impossibly hot, her lips dry. Nervous fingers fell on the lever; she inhaled when the door clicked, stepped past the threshold with slurring feet, and it was with anxiety that she nodded for Fatyan to follow. She did, a soft question in her brown eyes.
Yzabel turned the key, leaned against the door as she looked up at Fatyan’s false features. “Please change back.”
Magic swelled, and like clay being re-molded, Faty became herself, with her stunning eyes and luscious lips. “You know, we can still break Brites out of the dungeons and make a run for it,” she said. “If you’re worried about tomorrow, we can—”
“I’m not worried.” Yzabel stepped closer, traced Faty’s high cheekbone with her thumb, the line of a jaw, and felt Faty’s entire body quieten. “I’ll live with you or die with you.” Heart pulsing in her throat, Yzabel brushed the bow of Faty’s mouth, felt a hot breath parting it under her fingers. “We’ll be together either way.”
Tears welled along her eyelashes “What are you—”
“I’m ready now,” Yzabel said, and let her fingers fall along the curve of Faty’s neck. “If you still want to.”
Faty’s shoulders slumped, her nostrils flared, her eyes widened. Her teeth bit into her lower lip as her chest expanded and deflated once. Twice. “Yes,” she said, one word fraught with pain and helplessness.
Yzabel kissed it away, tasting their mingled tears, tasting sadness because it took desperation for this to happen, tasting happiness because it was happening. A shift, and she held Fatyan closer, embracing her warmth, her love, and although Yzabel didn’t care to compare them, it was inevitable. This was so different from what happened when Denis kissed her, so much better, filling her with desire and the need for more.
They pulled apart, panting breaths mingling. Yzabel wiped the tears on Faty’s cheeks while ignoring the ones coating her own, and said, “I love you,” before kissing Fatyan again. “I wish I hadn’t been so stupid. I wish I hadn’t believed this was wrong. And I wish it hadn’t taken your absence for me to realize it, or that I had to stare death in the face to admit it.”
“Death does have a way of putting things in perspective,” Fatyan whispered, her arms falling around Yzabel’s waist, her hands resting on the small of her back. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll thank Yusef for making this mess and helping you along.”
Yusef. A lot of tomorrow hinged on him acting the way they expected, and, ultimately, for Faty to break the ties that bound her to him. “Do you think you’ll be able to forgive him?”
Fatyan tensed, a small wrinkle appearing between her brow, then disappearing with a shake of her head. “It will be fine. We know how to deal with him if I can’t. Now.” She pulled Yzabel against her. “No more talk of Yusef.”
Even if Yzabel wanted to, she couldn’t. Faty’s lips were on hers again, building heat inside her, burning away any thoughts, any feelings that weren’t about Faty, who used a gasp to slide her tongue in, brushing it against Yzabel’s, supporting her when her knees almost gave. She clutched Fatyan tighter, lost in feeling, eagerly returning everything, aware of her clumsiness—Fatyan chuckled, angling her head differently, kissing until they were out of breath, kissing more once they regained it.
They came to a stop at the foot of the bed. Over the dress, Faty trailed her fingers over the line of Yzabel’s collarbone, drawing a shiver not from cold, but from pleasure.
“Yza?”
“Yes?”
“You can tell me to stop if you want me to.”
“I know.”
“Then…”
“I don’t want you to stop. But…” Yzabel looked away, embarrassed.
Softly, Faty turned Yzabel’s face back to face hers. “But what?”
“I know we…umm…did some things already, but…” She inhaled, the pent-up need and anticipation making her shudder. “I’m still unsure how it’s supposed to go between us.”
Fatyan smiled, the mischief fluttering in Yzabel’s stomach. “Do you want me to show you?”
Their night together over a month ago echoed in her ears. This time, she left no room for doubt. “Yes.”
Another kiss, and her mantle was on the floor, the dress over her head, the slippers kicked aside. Her hands helped Faty out of the castle maid’s outfit, so tight around her ample chest, then the slippers and socks. Yzabel’s back hit the covers, and slowly, Faty peeled one sock, then the other, leaving the scars of the cilice exposed.
A rush of warmth spilled from between Yzabel’s legs as Faty took her lips to where the cilice had marked her, tongue sliding along the tender flesh.
Then she came up, and they pressed together, nothing but undershirts between them and their kisses. “You can touch me, you know,” Faty said with a sinful nibble to Yzabel’s neck.
She hadn’t realized she’d been w
aiting for permission until it was given. There was no hair along Fatyan’s spine, skin smooth and warm under her palm.
Faty sat up to toss aside the last of her garments, the sight of her mesmerizing. Yzabel was ensorcelled as she followed, baring herself in return, fighting the need to cover her lacking assets in shame, then forgetting all about it. The place where Faty straddled her stomach radiated with heat.
Yzabel closed a hand around one of Faty’s breasts, heavy and much too big for her small fingers, and Faty smiled lazily at her, leaning down to brush their lips together.
“How long were you waiting for that?”
The hot flush pulsed on her cheeks. If she were to be honest… “Since I met you.”
Faty held Yzabel’s hand to her breast as she swung a leg back, leaving them both on their sides, facing each other.
“When you saw my heart…did you see this?” Yzabel asked.
“No,” Faty said, gently rolling over so Yzabel was under her again. “But the more I think about it, the more I believe.”
“Believe what?”
“That it was my fado to stay in the stone for so long.” A kiss on Yzabel’s temples. “It was fado that you misunderstood your blessing.” Another kiss, this time on her cheek, accompanied by the dance of fingers skimming over her stomach. “Fado that your lady’s maid knew where I was.” A third kiss, right in the corner of her mouth. “Fado that you found me.”
Faty softly bit at Yzabel’s lower lip. “But it wasn’t fado that made me fall in love with you.”
“No?”
“No.” A lick along the seam of Yzabel’s mouth. “Fado might’ve set up the stage, but it was you who conducted the play.”
It became hard to think straight, not to fall to comparisons again, but this, this was the intimacy she wanted, with the person she loved. It would never be the same with Denis, for he was a man, with a man’s touch, a man’s needs. The difference between the love she held for Denis, and the love she held for Fatyan had never been as pronounced, as clear.
A Curse of Roses Page 27