My knees give out, and I slump to the stone floor.
There has to besomethingI can do. Maybe I can connect with the other Illustrian prisoners? But a quick glance around the dungeon proves to be a vain endeavor. I don’t see or hear any other victims. My cell seems to be in an empty wing.
Think, Ximena. Use your head.
With Ana gone—I flinch at the thought—her magic surrounding the bridge has vanished. Finding the Estrella isn’t just about safeguarding Catalina’s reign; it’s about ensuring the Illustrians’ survival. Once Atoc realizes he can cross that bridge … I shudder. The fortress can withstand an attack, but with food scarce there’s no way our people will outlast a prolonged assault.
I gently bang the back of my head against the cool stone.Thud, thud, thud.
Overthrowing Atoc is my priority. Finding the Estrella guarantees victory. But even so, I have to send a message to Catalina to let her know how much time she has to prepare for the attack.
And for that I need a loom.
The lock creaks and slides back, wrenching me from my thoughts. Heavy footsteps thudding in the dark make me lurch to my feet. A shape materializes. It’s Rumi—his shoulders hunched, carrying a blanket tucked under his arm, a basket in one hand. I sniff. The basket definitely has food. Some kind of cheese and bread. It takes everything in me not to rush to the bars and snatch both out of his hands.
He stops in front of the door to my cell. “Congratulations, you’ve earned an extended stay down here. If that’s what you were hoping to achieve with your antics yesterday, it worked.”
I clench my fists. Intolerable idiot.
“If you’ve come to gloat,” I say, “I’d rather not hear it.”
He reaches for the key hanging on a rusty nail in the wall. “I’m here to do a job, Condesa. Observing your rash stupidity is just a perk, and my prerogative.”
I don’t expect sympathy from him. But his tone, sour like week-old milk, sends a sharp flare of annoyance coursing through my body. I welcome it. I prefer to have a target for my emotions instead of holding on to my grief.
“I don’t think it’s stupid or rash to stand up for a friend,” I say. “But I guess that’s where we differ.” As a quip, it’s not one of my best, but I’m reasonably proud of my tone—I sound stronger than I feel.
Rumi turns the key, opens the door, and forcefully throws the blanket at my face. The basket with food he drops by the door. “Oh, I’m in complete agreement with you. We’re certainly different.”
“Fundamentally.”
He runs a cold, assessing eye over my person, seemingly dismissing me, until his attention focuses on my wrists. I tuck them behind my back, wrapping them around my ruined dress.
“Let me see.”
“Go away,” I snarl.
He takes a step closer. “Show me where it hurts.”
“Ándate a la mierda.” Showing him my wounds feels wrong. They’re raw, and they badly sting. I don’t want him near me, let alone examining my injuries.
“Fine,” he snaps when it becomes clear I won’t give in. The door to my cell clangs shut behind him, ringing in my ears. “Someone will be down with a chamber pot.”
My stomach twists at the thought of relieving myself in the room where I ate my dinner, but hunger wins, and I eat the marraqueta loaf, queso blanco, and plátanos in one sitting.
The chamber pot is delivered. The guards set up cacho, a Llacsan dice game, where they play by torchlight. Their hollering and laughing keeps me up for hours, so I sit in the corner of my cell, glaring in their general direction for most of the night.
Rumi returns sometime later. A full day may have passed. By now I’ve taken several hundred restless turns in the cell. I want to scream in frustration. I have to get out of here. Illustrians are depending on me;Catalinais depending on me. I still don’t have any idea of how I can get a loom.
Then there’s the not so small matter of my raw wrists.
They’re getting worse—bubbling and oozing. Without proper care, infection will set in. The infection will lead to a fever, and I’ll be useless if I get sick.
Nothing can jeopardize my mission.Nothing.
The loud clang of the lock sliding open makes me turn toward the dungeon’s door. Rumi approaches, carrying another basket. I’d been fed earlier by one of the guards, and the blanket hasn’t been taken away. What is he doing down here?
He takes the keys to the cell off the rusty nail and uses them to come inside my prison. “Let’s get this over with, Condesa.” He gives me a resigned look.
