“Gods, you’re going to be insufferable throughout this, aren’t you?”
“All signs point to it, don’t you think?”
He mutters something about spoiled idiots and turns away.
I don’t know what’s come over me, or where this sudden impulse to sass the king’s cousin stems from, but I enjoy annoying him. Perhaps because the only thing I can control at the moment is what comes out of my mouth. Without my daggers or my sword, it’s the only weapon I have left.
“Am I allowed to leave my room?” I ask as we pass narrow window after narrow window. “How do you keep warm during the winter if none of these windows have glass?”
I’ve only visited the castillo once and it was during the wet season—hot and unforgiving temperatures amid stormy afternoons that feed the earth and turn it green.
A flash of bewilderment crosses his face. “Why do you want to know about the windows?”
“Making conversation,” I say. Each annoyed expression that crosses his face is a small triumph. A triumph that can’t be measured, but it bolsters my confidence nevertheless. “I suppose we could talk about El Lobo.”
Rumi scowls. “The human wart, you mean.”
I have my reservations about the vigilante, but upon hearing Rumi’s dislike, my respect for him soars. “He’s not so bad. And since you don’t like the subject, you can think of something to say next.”
“Generous of you,” he drawls. Another beat of silence, and then he adds, “Who trained you to fight?”
I frown. “How did you know I could fight?”
“Do you often carry around daggers as adornments?” His sarcastic tone feels like a smack. “I saw you fight in the courtyard.”
I wince. My accursed temper will be the death of me, no doubt. But at least word will spread that the Illustrians and their condesa aren’t to be underestimated. “We all learn to fight, Llacsan. Or did you think we sat around all day admiring ourselves?”
Rumi stops at a heavy wooden door, the middle in a long line. I wonder who else sleeps on this floor. He turns to face me. “It certainly wouldn’t surprise me.”
As if we lazy aristocrats are capable of only climbing in and out carriages. As if we aren’t capable of surviving. “I don’t even own a hairbrush,” I mutter.
The corners of his mouth deepen, as if he fights a reluctant smile. Or a smirk. Then it’s smoothed away by hostility. “This is you,” he says. “You’re not to leave unless escorted—”
“I remember.”
“Fine,” he says, waspish. He gestures to the guard on his left. He’s almost Rumi’s height, with long hair that brushes past his shoulders. They look about the same age, but this one smells better. Woodsy with a hint of mint. “This is Juan Carlos. If you need to find me, ask him. He’ll be outside your door all night.”
I stare at the guard. “Nice to meet you.”
Juan Carlos’s lips twitch at my sarcasm.
“I’ll come for you mañana.” Rumi opens the door, and Juan Carlos ushers me inside.
The lock slides into place.
Someone has done a thorough job of going through my bag. Everything has been dumped on the floor. All of my clothes, gone. My boots and strappy sandals remain. They let me keep my llama wool, a knotty mess that’ll take hours to untangle.
Looking around, I curl my lip. My room is the color of pigskin. It’s a narrow rectangle, with one big window at the end that leads out to a balcony. The bed has a woven striped blanket and apillow.A real, honest-to-Luna pillow. I haven’t slept on one since I was a child.
There’s a handsome wooden dresser with knobs painted in turquoise—of course—and a reading chair propped in the corner. A matching striped rug covers the floor.
Throwing open the balcony doors, I let the evening air in, not caring if fat mosquitos wander through. The balcony looks sturdy, but even so, I don’t venture out. I’m on the third floor. High enough to unsettle my nerves. But the fresh air feels nice, and it gives me a glimpse of La Ciudad. The bell tower strikes the seventh hour. I look for home, but it’s too dark to see the fortress, even with all of Luna’s stars.
They’re no doubt settling in for the night. Making do with the food on hand. Bowls of quinoa and several pitchers of jugo de lima on the table, Catalina at the head, smiling and beginning the meager meal with a prayer to Luna.
I said goodbye to her only this morning and already I miss her. She’ll expect some word from me soon. I have to find a loom, have to tell her about the wedding during Carnaval.
Carnaval.An Illustrian three-day festival honoring the moon and stars. Parades and costumes, sticky desserts sold on every street corner, dancing and music. It was my favorite time of year. But the Llacsans have claimed it as their own: Now duringourholiday, they celebrate the Llacsan sun god and Mother Earth—Inti and Pachamama. The grand finale is a human sacrifice of someone around my age.
