“¿Qué te pasa?” I ask, impatient.
“We’re late. Forget I said anything. Can you walk and talk at the same time? King Atoc, ruler of the Great Lake, of El Altiplano and all the land in between—”
His voice hits a worshipping note that makes me snort.
“—wants you up front.”
I grab a fistful of the dress—it’s nearly a foot too long—and sweep past him. But as I do, he suddenly reaches out and takes hold of my upper arm.
“What,” he asks, “is that?”
I follow his line of sight to my tapestry. It takes everything in me to keep my face perfectly neutral. To not react or stiffen or jerk away in surprise. The rest of me blazes. All of my senses are on high alert, crying out a warning.
“Did you meet her?” His eyes snap to mine.
I blink in confusion. “Who?”
Rumi leans forward, his eyes intent on me. “So you didn’t?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about, Llacsan.”
He releases me and walks toward the chair. I suck in a quiet breath and fight the impulse to cry out when he lifts the tapestry, poring over every detail. “You made this.”
His tone suggests he doesn’t think me capable of creating something this beautiful.
“Yes.” I shift my feet, clasping and unclasping my hands.
What if he finds the message? It’s impossible, I know that, but his intense study increases my apprehension. Lunaonlyreveals herself to Illustrians. The message won’t make sense to a Llacsan. He sees only the glimmer of light. A faint silver. A touch of magic. Only part of the picture.
“Aren’t we late?”
He merely grunts and continues studying the work. “That’s just something I say to get you out of my hands faster. You used several techniques in this, and they surprisingly work well together.”
I’m not sure what to respond to first. The first insult or the second.
“I told you I was a weaver. It’s why I asked for the loom.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t automatically trust the word of an Illustrian,” he says, finally looking away from the tapestry. His intense expression startles me. “I’ve never seen this color thread before. It’sglowing.It definitely wasn’t in the basket I sent up.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.
“Where did you get it?”
His scrutiny of the moon thread does nothing to settle my anxiety. I don’t want to share my magic with him. It’s mine. It brings me joy and peace andlife.It hides the truth in plain sight.
Rumi wears his usual scowl as he waits for my answer. Which I absolutely won’t give.
Juan Carlos pokes his head inside the room. “Are you two coming or what? His Majesty hates when people arrive after him.” When he sees what’s in Rumi’s hand, he walks in, his mouth slightly agape. “Who gave you this gift, Condesa?”
I blink, long and slow and annoyed. “No one. This is my work.”
“Who knew you were so talented?” he says with a wink. “What do I have to sacrifice in order to get one?”
“I’m not wasting my wool on you.”
He shrugs and leans forward to study the tapestry alongside the healer. A flutter of unease spreads through me. Now there are two Llacsans studying my secret message to Catalina.
It’s taking all of my self-control to keep myself from ripping the tapestry out of their hands. I analyze both boys as they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent toward the shimmering thread. Rumi and Juan Carlos share almost the same height, have the same long, curling hair and dark eyes. They could be brothers. One with an eternal smile, the other an intolerable grump. I like people who fall somewhere in the middle.
