My fingers twitch as if reaching for my blades, but I have only my hurting hands to defend myself with. “Get ready for what?”
He pulls a carefully wrapped package slowly from the basket.
I frown. “What’s that for?”
Rumi opens the folds, revealing pressed herbs. He means to treat my rope burns.
I back away. “You’re not coming near my wrists.” He’ll be rough, and heaven knows what else he has in that basket. He might make things worse, then I’ll be ruined. I need to be alert, to somehow find a loom so I can write my messages for Catalina. If he drugs me, or puts the wrong medication on my wounds, I’ll have to recover and I don’t have time for that. “I want to see a healer.”
He lifts a dark brow. “I am a healer, you fool.”
I purse my lips. “You?”
Somehow that doesn’t fit. To heal people, you have to understand them. You have to take the time to listen and actually hear what bothers them. Rumi doesn’t strike me as a good listener. It does, however, explain why his clothes reek of burnt leaves.
“Yes,” he says. “Me. It’s my Pacha magic. I don’t have all day, and I will literally sit on you to get this done, Condesa. Don’t fight me on this.”
If he thinks I’m going to willingly submit to his treatment, he’s in for a surprise, healer or no. I’m not going to risk my hands for nothing. I need to weave my messages.
He takes a step forward.
I take a step back. Glancing over my shoulder, I calculate how many moves I have left. About three more steps until my back reaches the cold stone. An idea streaks through my mind, bright like a shooting star. I hold on to it as if my life depends on it. And in a way, it does. “What’s in it for me?”
Rumi blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What’s in it for you?” he repeats. “How about not having to deal with an infection? Not succumbing to fever? Avoiding death?”
I shake my head. “That benefitsyou.I’m your charge, right? What would it look like if you couldn’t keep one girl alive? Will the king still trust you if his soon-to-be wife falls ill?”
A scowl rips through his face, sudden and fierce. “The mark of a true Illustrian. Always wanting more than their due. Well? What is it?”
“I want your promise that you’ll bring me what I ask for.”
“My promise?” he says, raising his voice to a near shout. “As if you have any room to negotiate—”
“I’ll fight you if you take one step closer,” I snap. “Hear this, Llacsan: I can make your life easier or much, much worse. Give me what I ask for, and I’ll let my wrists be treated. That’s what I’m proposing.”
“What do you want?” His voice comes out in a growl.
“The promise first.”
He rolls his eyes until the whites show. “I promise to bring what you ask for—within reason.I can’t guarantee your release. At present, the king won’t let anyone breathe your name.”
I smile—a triumphant smile that spreads from ear to ear. “I want a loom.”
Rumi takes a step back, stunned, his dark eyes widening. There’s a long beat of silence.
“Well?”
“Why,” he asks carefully, “do you want a loom?”
“I like to weave.”
Rumi frowns. “That’s not an Illustrian hobby.”
I shrug. So I shouldn’t like to weave because of who I am? That’s ridiculous. I like creating with my hands. There’s something rewarding about making art out of nothing. The tucking and untucking, the folding over and under. Repeating until a bright new thing winks back at me. I make tapestries with my own two hands. There isn’t anything better than creating something beautiful, especially if it hides a message that can save my people. Who gives a damn if I’m an Illustrian or not? The loom can’t tell the difference.
