I roll my eyes. But he returns carrying a bag full of almond-shaped pastries filled with diced meat and potatoes, peas, raisins, and a single black olive baked in a savory soup. We sit at one of the available tables and Rumi hands me a salteña, a spoon, and a clay plate.
I drop the pastry onto the plate and am just about to pierce the dough when Rumi makes a loud sound of disgust at the back of his throat.
“What are youdoing?” he asks, sounding like I’m about to murder a baby alpaca.
I stare at him blankly.
Rumi makes more disgusted noises as he drags my plate away. “Condesa, let me teach you how to eat a salteña correctly.” He picks one up, holding the pointed ends with his middle finger and thumb, and gently shakes it. “After you shake it, take a small bite at one of the ends. Then pour the soup into your spoonfirst soit doesn’t spill all over your plate.”
It takes several spoonfuls before Rumi eats all of the jugo. Meanwhile, my stomach continues to rumble. I eye my food longingly.
“You’re eating it wrong if you get even a drop of juice on your plate,” he says in a serious tone. He bites into the pastry and proceeds to scoop the filling into his mouth. He eats the whole thing without spilling any of it.
Isn’t he talented. I grab the plate with my salteña, my stomach still rumbling loudly. I try to eat the salteña the way he taught me, but some of the soup ends up on my plate.
Rumi smirks at me. “You know what they say about people who spill the juice, right?”
I eye him warily. “What?”
“That they’re terrible kissers.”
For some unfathomable reason my cheeks warm. I glare at him and grab another salteña.
This time I don’t spill a drop. Somehow it tastes better. Probably because most of it gets to my stomach. When I finish, I stare at him as he devours his third salteña. He eats like a starving wolf. As if any moment the food will vanish into thin air.
“So,” I say. “The princesa?”
Rumi grunts and reaches for another salteña.
I frown. Why doesn’t he want to do something about it? The Llacsans living in the city certainly do. And if they care enough, they’ll speak up. “I don’t think anyone in La Ciudad has a clue about her execution.”
He chokes on his first bite of his fourth salteña.
“What do you think the people will do when they learn the truth?” I ask loudly. Several Llacsans enjoying their food stare in my direction.
Rumi accidentally dribbles jugo onto his plate.
“Ha! Looks like you’re a terrible kisser too.”
He stares at me in impotent fury. “You don’t get to ask or talk about the princesa. Stop spreading rumors and being dramatic.” He shakes his salteña at me.
It seems Atoc is blithely unaware that his decision regarding his sister will have terrible consequences. Consequences that are better for us. An idea strikes me. Can the Llacsans loyal to the princesa come to our side?
“Will they revolt, do you think? Boycott tax day? Cut down trees and block the roads?”
“They’ll do nothing,” he says coldly. “Weallobey the king and respect his leadership. And it’s not an execution. It’s an honor to be chosen—”
I wave my hand dismissively. “For the sacrifice. So you’ve mentioned.”
His lips thin.
I think about the distress I heard in the crowd’s voices as they wondered about the princesa’s absence. I remember the murmuring at court when the king made his announcement. Rumi is wrong.
The Llacsans won’t take her death lightly.
He eats the rest of his food in silence and doesn’t speak to me the whole way back to the castillo.
Fine by me.
