Johanna’s hair was clean, and her stomach ached with fullness. It was her first real meal since the Keepers had captured her and dragged her away from Santiago, leaving the wreckage of her family in their wake.
Her brothers would have loved the food. She could imagine Thomas devouring bowl after bowl of feijoada, and Michael eating so fast he’d dribble some on his shirt. And Joshua . . .
Pressing her hand to her mouth, she forced down the sob that threatened to rise with thoughts of her brothers. She could still feel Joshua’s blood on her skin and hear his rasping final words. Safe, he’d said, using his last breath to reassure her that Michael was alive and hidden.
In four months’ time she’d lost her father, mother, and two of her brothers, and watched a handful of other people die trying to protect her. Her career and identity had been snatched away and replaced with something ephemeral.
And all for what? Because I’m apparently the heir to the throne of a broken kingdom and responsible for a barrier I don’t know how to fix?
Jacaré had sworn that as the magical barrier weakened, it created an elemental vacuum, siphoning power from Santarem and throwing the environment out of balance. Panthers crept out of the mountains to harass farmers, snakes infested the ruins of the capital city, and a vicious drought stretched on, killing crops and leaving many of Rafi’s people without enough food for the winter. And that was only the beginning of the danger. The Nata, as Jacaré had called them, were Keepers motivated by greed and power. They would flood Santarem and control its people if the wall fell.
Tears burned in Jo’s tired eyes, but she refused to let them drop. Rafi had gone down to bathe and bandage the gashes he’d gotten when he fell, but he would be back soon. Johanna would not fall apart in front of him. Not again.
A voice broke through her dark thoughts, its tone soothing and familiar.
Think of Beta, her father would have said, retelling one of Santarem’s oldest stories. She lost her hand to the dragão, but did she give up the fight? Did she let that monster raze the countryside and destroy Santarem? No! She walked into its lair and fired the killing bolt with one hand and her teeth!
Get up, Johanna. Get up and fight.
After a few deep breaths she did. She and Rafi had worked out a plan as they made their slow progress through the swamp. The magical barrier had to be repaired. But without Jacaré’s help, Johanna had no idea how to make that happen. There was only one place that might have the answers she sought: the Great Maringa Library.
It housed the greatest collection of Keeper lore, some of which was rumored to have been looted from the Citadel after it had fallen and Johanna’s birth parents, King Wilhelm and Queen Christiana, had been slaughtered by Duke Inimigo’s troops.
“We cannot go to Maringa. Inimigo will have our heads,” Rafi had said when she initially made the suggestion. “It isn’t worth the risk, no matter what those books can tell us.”
“Can you think of another way?” Johanna had challenged.
Neither of them would consider going to Duke Belem for help. The fat menace had attacked Johanna and stolen her necklace, King Wilhelm’s sigil. He had been untrustworthy before he had the necklace, but now he was a dangerous foe with the means to consolidate power and make a play for Santarem’s throne. They couldn’t afford to let him get close to Johanna again.
All other arguments had dissolved, and Rafi and Jo had agreed to continue traveling north to Cruzamento before turning west to Maringa. They hoped that any pursuers would expect Rafi to return to the DeSilva estate, and be thrown off their trail.
At least that’s what they wanted to happen. They had no idea how many Keepers had sided with Vibora or how many subjugates might be helping her.
If they could get to Maringa. If they could find the information. If they could figure out how to stabilize the wall. If they could stand against power-hungry dukes and powerful Keepers . . .
If. If. If. No guarantees. No assurances.
She swiped away the doubts and determined to hold on to whatever shreds of hope she could grasp, knowing too well the consequences of succumbing to despair. After her father’s death, Johanna’s mother had fallen into an awful, crippling depression, and the rest of her family had been casualties.
For now, Johanna would have to find some pocket in the back of her mind to stuff her own hurts and woes into. Someday, when this whole tangle was unraveled, she’d allow herself the time to grieve for her family properly.
Footsteps approached from the common room, and she forced a smile onto her face. It trembled, but held.
Rafi knocked lightly before pushing the door open. “Johanna?” He edged into their shared room, as if he were invading her private space. He’d purchased a new shirt, a garish woven thing with a wide V at the neck, a large pocket across his belly, and a hood that hung to his waist. It wasn’t quite long enough, looking like something that might have shrunk in too-hot wash water.
Johanna wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t look away from the lines of muscle the shirt exposed. She’d always been attracted to Rafi, even when she refused to admit it. She had spent weeks ignoring his good looks, branding him a conceited noble, and taking every opportunity to wound his pride. But now heat crept up her cheeks when she realized that neither of them had spoken, that they both waited, frozen, staring at each other.
“That shirt is absolutely hideous,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
“Wait till you see the dress I got you.” He flung a package in her direction. “I thought it was a good disguise.”
She unrolled the bundle and fingered the purple, brown, and yellow material. “Are we blind beggars?”
“No, we’re wool merchants.”
“Who specialize in selling the ugliest fabric possible?” She held the dress up to her neck and saw that it was meant for a much larger woman. She’d have to hack off the bottom and find a way to cinch the neckline, but it was far better than the shirt she’d rinsed out in the bathtub. “What is this pattern? Clouds with legs? Trees with too many trunks?”
“I believe they’re sheep.” Though from the look on his face, it seemed he, too, was struggling to decipher the picture. “Wool merchants dye their cloth in the brightest colors possible as showpieces when they travel to larger towns.”
“This one has five legs.”
“I think that’s a tail.” He reached across the small space to touch the animal in question, his hand lingering on her arm.
The contact sparked a fuse, lines of heat raced across her skin, spiraling inward, making her stomach clench.
Breathe, Johanna. No need to get ninny-headed every time he walks into a room.
She wanted to turn away, to pretend she felt nothing, but his fingers slid past the bend of her elbow and landed on the dip of her waist.
Rafi pressed her closer. The ugly dress was crushed between them, her hands fisted against his ribs, his heart pounding against her knuckles.
There was a moment of hesitation, when he gave her the chance to back away.
She didn’t.
Chapter 5
* * *
Rafi
Their first kiss had been a gift; sweet and innocent, new and hesitant. This kiss was stolen; bold, daring, and a little wicked. Johanna’s hands relaxed, slipping down his body, fingers splaying over his abdomen. The dress forgotten.
Rafi’s lips slid to Johanna’s jaw, then her neck, as his hands quested up her back, tracing over the small bones of her spine. She twined one hand into his hair and held him tighter.
He wasn’t quite sure when he’d moved, but his forearm was pressed against the room’s rear wall, his weight pinning Johanna to the rough wooden planks. Her fingertips had crept under the hem of his too-short shirt, and he was painfully aware of her skin against his.
That was the moment when a chaperone, or an angry father, or his irritating younger brother, Dom, would have burst through the door—at least, that’s how the stories went. Kissing was always interrup
ted when it was still just kissing, before lines were crossed, before one of them had to be brave enough to stop.
Before rules were broken.
Where’s your honor now, Rafael DeSilva?
He ignored the thought for a moment longer, before pulling away with a groan. Even if Performers’ rules were different, his behavior wasn’t in line with his own sense of right and wrong.
He pressed his forehead against hers, neither of them speaking until their breathing had calmed a bit.
“I’m sorry. I should have . . . I shouldn’t have . . .” He pinched his eyes shut. “Do Performers have betrothal contracts like nobles do? I mean, I thought that since you’d been raised a Performer, maybe those would be the standards you would want to follow, but since you’re not actually a Performer—”
“Betrothal contract?” she asked, with a wide grin and a laugh in her voice. “Rafi, what in Mother Lua’s name are you talking about?”
“I just . . .” He stepped away, needing the space, needing to breathe air that wasn’t scented with the sweet smell of Johanna. It would have been so easy to pick up where he left off. “If there’s a right way to do things, I want to know. I want our betrothal to be a success. I want you to feel comfortable and happy and—”
She held up a hand, stopping him, and for that he was grateful. He was babbling like an idiot.
“Last night you said that this would be a story to tell our grandchildren about,” she said slowly, the happiness fading from her face. “You meant our grandchildren.”
A tickle of trepidation, like an unseen spider, raced across Rafi’s shoulders. “Well . . . of course. You know our fathers arranged our betrothal after you were born.”
“Your father and King Wilhelm arranged it. My father was Arlo Von Arlo.”
“Your real father was the king. You are Princess Adriana.”
Jo turned slightly to the side, not facing him directly, almost as if she was avoiding the truth. “I don’t have to be.”
“Of course you do. You’re the heir to this kingdom.” They’d discussed her identity; he’d shared the letter his father had written. Even if she was afraid or didn’t understand her duties, there was no reason to deny them completely. Unless . . .
He ignored the bite of rejection and pressed on. “With my help and with my uncle Fernando’s, you could put Belem and Inimigo in their rightful places.” He stepped closer to her and softened his tone. “After the barrier is repaired, we could do so much good.”
“Oh, we should definitely get married for the sake of Santarem.” Her words nipped, sharp with teeth of sarcasm. “Or, here’s another idea, once I repair this magical barrier, I could remain an anonymous Performer and live my life without constant threats from people who want to kill me and everyone I love.”
The words he was going to say dried up on his tongue, and he swallowed a few times, forcing away the hurt. This wasn’t about him. At least, not entirely. “You’re scared. I understand that—”
“This isn’t only about being afraid, Rafi. Marriage? Thrones? This isn’t something two dead men should decide for us.”
“Those two dead men were our fathers,” he said, his temper flaring. “They’d want us to put our selfish concerns aside and think about our people.”
That was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, and he watched the instant effect they had on Johanna’s posture.
She faced him squarely, spine straight as a sword. He’d seen her do this before, making herself seem bigger and more threatening, like a hunted beast facing down a predator.
“Selfish concerns,” she said, her words clipped. “Michael, my little brother, is a selfish concern?”
“You know that’s not what I meant—”
“You’re asking me to put Santarem over what’s left of my family—and I’m already doing that by going to the wall. He is the only thing I have left. What else is this country going to ask from me?”
Everything. Rafi had been raised to serve the people, and while it was a burden, he also felt honored to bear it. Maybe it was unfair to ask Johanna to carry the same weight, but he’d harbored a humble hope that she’d be willing to share it as his partner. His wife. Working together toward the same goal.
He never anticipated how much that commonality would mean to him, and he had to look away, afraid she’d see something vulnerable and disappointed in his expression. There was a blanket on the bedside table, and he made a bed on the floor while Johanna turned her back and slipped the ugly dress over her head.
The silence between them stretched cold and uncomfortable, neither of them warming the small room with words. Eventually Johanna cleared her throat. “Were there any horses to buy?”
“No,” he said as he stepped out of his boots and lay down fully dressed. “We can ride out with the peddler who is staying downstairs. His cart is crowded, but I can spend most of the time jogging alongside.”
“We can take turns.”
“Jo—” He cut himself off before he started another argument. “Fine. We’ll take turns.”
Chapter 6
* * *
Dom
A shaft of sunlight shone through the open hatch that led to the manor’s roof. Dom jogged up the narrow stairway and shouldered through the opening.
“Michael?” he shouted as he stepped onto the flat space. “Are you up here?”
The roof was cluttered with chimneys, stacks of terra-cotta repair tiles, and the roost that housed the DeSilvas’ messenger pigeons. Plenty of places for a child to hide.
“If you’re up here, please come out.”
The little boy tried to keep his emotions hidden, but when he was too sad, he hid himself instead. The maids found him under tables, beneath the stairs, and once, sound asleep in a pile of clean laundry. This time he’d been missing for hours, and Brynn, the head maid, was pulling her hair out with worry. She’d enlisted every household member, the off-duty guardsmen, and even the few remaining visitors to help search for the boy.
“Michael!”
Only the pigeons responded to Dom’s call. He checked the cage for any new arrivals, any message from his brother or the other group who’d gone in search of Johanna.
But there was nothing. Not a message. Not a sad, lonely little boy.
Dom crossed to the half wall that wrapped around the landing, and leaned his elbows against the railing, feeling tired and frustrated. The past week had been hellish, even without worrying about his young charge. People kept coming to him with questions he didn’t know how to answer.
Lord Dom, a representative from the Farmers’ Guild is here. Would you like to speak to him?
Lord Dom, would you prefer to have the guest situated in the east wing or the west?
Lord Dom, where should I put the cartload of pickled beets? In the cellar or the pantry?
At first he redirected everyone to his mother, but when he realized how overwhelmed she was in Rafi’s absence, Dom tried to handle the requests himself. And was certain he’d done everything wrong.
Come back soon, Rafi. I’m not capable of taking care of anyone but myself. He looked toward the Milners’ mango orchard, where a bare patch marked the spot where the Von Arlos’ wagons once stood. At this distance he couldn’t see anything besides a black smudge in the green canopy, but he knew the bones of the wagons were still there.
Perhaps Michael had tried to go home?
Dom turned toward the stairs and saw a hint of purple fabric sticking out from behind one of the chimneys. He wasn’t particularly observant, but that precise shade had been stretched over a body that was difficult to ignore.
“You may as well come out, Lady Maribelle.” Dom stepped between the chimney and the roof’s exit, blocking off any escape attempt. “I know you’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.” She straightened from a crouch, shaking out her silky black hair. “You seemed to be having a private moment, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Hm
m.” Dom folded his arms across his chest and spread his feet wide. “For some reason I’m hesitant to believe you.”
“Like you, I enjoy the view of Santiago,” she said as she stepped out of the narrow space, dragging several feet of skirt behind her. Her fashion selections were a topic of much conversation among the staff and nobles. Today her dress was decidedly bottom heavy, baring her clavicles and arms despite the slight chill in the air.
Maribelle moved with a sway, shifting her hips from side to side as she circled toward the hatch.
Dom wasn’t distracted by her curves or her ploy to slip past him, and kept himself between the lady and her escape. “I could take you to a few places that have excellent scenery.”
“That would be lovely, my lord,” she said with a coy shrug.
Neither of them moved, each waiting for the other to make an excuse to leave or to stay on the roof.
I can play this game all day. Dom grinned at Maribelle without showing his teeth. “Since you were up here enjoying the view, you didn’t by chance notice Michael out on the grounds anywhere?”
“I didn’t.” She moved one hand to her waist. “I’ve always found that haylofts are a perfect place to hide. Perhaps we should check there?”
Brazen. I like that. “Sounds like an excellent plan.”
“I’ll follow you down.”
Dom held out his arm. “Let me escort you.”
Maribelle’s smile faded. “Perhaps after lunch? I promised my ladies I’d join them.”
Dom withheld one of a dozen caustic remarks about Maribelle and her two attendants. The women spent all their time strutting around the estate or fluttering to the township to gossip with every highborn and—if the rumors were true—some significantly less savory fellows.
“Shall I call a maid and have the kitchen bring something up?”
“I’m fine on my own.” She softened the edge to her words with a quick, “Thank you.”
Dom knew he’d won. “How about you give me the message you’re so desperately trying to send to your father?”
The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 2