It isn’t a question. I hand her the next ribbon. The anger I carry for the Llacsans has been my closest friend ever since I spent time on the streets after my parents’ deaths. It’s fueled me. Motivated me to survive. Anger carried me to the castillo gates.
And now? Do I feel anger toward Suyana? I thought about my plea to spare Pidru’s life. Definitely not the actions of an angry girl. Definitely not the actions of an angry girl posing as a decoy spy.
That’s when it hits me.
I’m no longer angry withallof them. Just Atoc and Sajra, and for very specific reasons. Not because they’re Llacsans, but because they’re corrupt. My realization feels important somehow.
I turn to face her, and nod. I want her to know that I heard her. “Yes, I did put you all in the same box. But that doesn’t feel right to me anymore.”
“Just as it doesn’t feel right to keep you in the one I made for you,” she says. “You’re ready to face the king, Condesa.”
Suyana leaves with a soft smile.
It should have made me feel better. The first real smile she’s given me. Sincere and a little shy. But it’s a lie. She smiled at the decoy.
The real condesa hates all Llacsans.
Juan Carlos comes to fetch me for court. He leans languidly against the door frame, a smile that I assume most find utterly attractive stretching his perfect mouth. My hair has been tamed, I’m wearing rouge on my lips, and the dress must fit right given the way he’s studying me from head to toe. “You look very fetching. The loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.”
How he manages to utter such ridiculous nonsense with a straight face is beyond my understanding. It takes a special kind of person, I guess.
“I don’t care for your compliments.”
He laughs. “So you’ve made clear. ¿Lista?”
I let my nod speak for me since I don’t trust my voice to remain steady. My fear has caught me by the throat. Then we’re out the door, the same tall guard from last night trailing after us. We march to face the king, and whatever mood he’ll be in after last night.
At least they won’t find the folded piece of paper detailing the possible locations of the Estrella. I snuck it down my dress in case Atoc demanded all rooms searched.
But they’d still find the sword and dark clothes.
My hands suddenly hurt, and I glance down in surprise. I’d been clenching my fists, my nails digging half-moon imprints into my palm. Juan Carlos lifts a dark brow in my direction. “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.” I flex my hands. “I mean, worse than usual.”
“Have you ever seen me in a good mood?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile—not even once,” he says. “Watch out for the eggs.”
I sidestep a pile of just-laid eggs, lying about as if it’s normal to have food on the floor. His words unsettle me. Catalina would have charmed this guard by now and sucked his secrets from him with her almost guileless manner and pretty grin. “You give your smiles away far too easily.”
“Is that why you don’t care for my company?” he asks, completely serious.
His words startle me to a stop. “It’s because you’re Llacsan, you—”
Laughter flickers in his dark eyes, spreading to his lips, and then he throws back his head. His shoulders are shaking and he props himself against the wall to steady himself.
My mood sours like rancid lemon juice. “Is this all a game to you?”
Juan Carlos straightens from the stone wall. There’s still a hint of a smile plaguing his lips. “Of course not,” he says. “But that’s what makes it fun.”
That’s when I feel it. A sharp prickle at the back of my neck, a sudden awareness that this boy isn’t as lighthearted and foolish as he seems. I bet my life he knows everything that goes on inside the castillo. With his agreeable manners and quips, lazy smile and affable personality, he gives off an almost studied air of harmlessness that makes him unthreatening and approachable. People must share their gossip with him, allow him to take them into his confidence, and blabber all manner of secrets and weaknesses. His shrewdness is deep and unassuming and thoroughly unrecognizable.
Juan Carlos is a natural spy.
He takes my arm and nudges me along until we get to the bottom of the staircase. Rumi is waiting for us. There are dark bags under his eyes, and I remember how he spent last night: tending to the guards I’d wounded. No wonder he looks like he didn’t get much sleep. At our approach, he sends me a cursory look that lasts mere seconds. Juan Carlos keeps pace behind us. We walk silently toward the throne room until Rumi reaches out and rests the back of his hand against my temple.
I flinch, but I don’t move away from his touch. It feels rude, somehow. I catch the scent of burnt leaves and wet dirt hovering around him and wrinkle my nose.
“No fever,” he says. “I was surprised to hear from Suyana that you were up and well today.”
