“Are you related?” I ask.
The question seems to amuse Rumi. They both remain silent, engrossed by the moon thread.
“This would make an excellent gift for King Atoc,” Juan Carlos says, ignoring me.
My face blanches. That tapestry belongs to Catalina. It absolutely can’t be gifted to the usurper. “What?No.He hates me. He’d probably burn it or use it to wipe his—”
“What do you think?” Juan Carlos interrupts. “You’ve been so worried.”
Rumi growls. “Stop talking.”
“But you get what I’m suggesting?” He fingers the soft thread.
Rumi slowly nods. Then he picks up the tapestry and carries it out of the room, turning away from me as I try to reach for it. Anger sears me. What gives him the right to take my things? I used the majority of my wool on that message.
“Where are you taking my tapestry?” I ask. The healer ignores me. I stalk out of the room after him. “Who do you think you are?”
“You’re his responsibility,” Juan Carlos says, keeping in stride with me.
“So?”
“Everythingyou do reflects on Rumi.” Juan Carlos shoots me a pointed look.
He’s referring to my time in the dungeon.
“Not my problem.” I stop walking. “I’m not taking another step until you give me back my tapestry, Llacsan.”
Both of them pivot and reach for me, Juan Carlos on my left and Rumi on my right. They each grip an arm in a viselike hold that makes me flinch.
“Come along, Condesa,” Rumi says.
Madre de Luna. He actually sounds bored.
“It’s mine,” I say, digging my heels in. I can’t let them have it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. “Give it back.”
Juan Carlos locks the bedroom door. Working together, they drag me down the corridor, setting off for the great hall. I have no choice but to follow, stumbling over my long dress, cursing them both.
“My abuela would blush to hear you talk,” Juan Carlos says mildly, rounding one of the corners.
I sidestep a squawking chicken, and their hold loosens enough for me to jump, my fingers just grazing the wool. Rumi spins around, somehow forcing me toward the wall. I pull up my hands in time to save myself from the crash. I barely notice the sting on my palms.
“Where are you taking my tapestry? I worked on it for hours—give it back!”
“You’ll present it to the king,” Juan Carlos says as we reach the stairs. “The giving of gifts is an important part of our culture. Understanding our traditions will help make you into a better partner for my king. The tapestry is a fine gift. It will put you back in his good graces.”
“When have I ever been in his good graces?”
“You ask too many questions,” Rumi says.
“It’s because I have a mind.”
He turns his head away but not before I catch the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Don’t you want to be in his good graces?”
Oh no, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do withhisimage. When Juan Carlos said Rumi was worried, this is what he meant. He’s worried about his reputation in the castillo.
“More like putyouback in his good graces,” I snap. “You’re a fool. Chasing after the king like a lovesick child, desperate for a scrap of attention. Everyone at court laughing at the spectacle you make.”
Rumi scowls. “Do you have any idea—”
