Twenty of the king’s relatives are seated around the long length of the table. Pitchers of jugo de lima and naranja are on either end, and in between are platters of fried huevos and papas fritas tossed in smoked salt and huacatay sauce, bowls of marraquetas and the achachairu fruit, and small plates of queso blanco. When Rumi looks up from his heaping plate, he chokes on his jugo de naranja and hastily puts down his glass, the orange liquid spilling over the rim.
Gradually everyone turns to face me as I hover by the entrance. Atoc is the last to notice, having been in the middle of telling a story. He’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, here in the company of his family. He’s dressed casually in a loose black tunic, dirt-colored pants, and leather sandals. He looks friendly and approachable and it disarms me. I know how to handle my enemy. But this Atoc is someone I haven’t encountered before.
Maybe I’m making a mistake.
Atoc’s gaze cuts to mine and he stiffens. “¿Qué haces aquí?”
I lift my chin. “Buenos días, Your Majesty. I’ve finished your wedding present. This was the only place I knew I’d find you. But perhaps it’s too much of an intrusion. I can come some other time, if you’d prefer.”
I don’t dare look at anyone else, and I make sure not to take another step forward. The silence stretches until he beckons me with a crooked index finger. Plastering a smile on my face, I step into the room. Atoc remains seated, which means no one else gets up. It’s just me standing near the head of the table, everyone staring at me as if I’m a mosca in their huevos. I hand him the cape.
He unfolds it, and the moon thread shimmers from the sunlight streaming through the tall rectangular windows. Someone at the other end of the table gasps. I barely notice.
“A fine gift,” he says gruffly. Then he stands and pulls the cape around his shoulders. A perfect fit. “You’re a talented weaver, Condesa. It’s a nice trait in a wife.”
Wife.It’s the exact response I’m looking for, but my mouth still goes dry. I manage a nod.
He lifts a section of the cape and inspects the moon thread. “Astonishing. Your skill might be better than my sister’s.”
My heart thumps wildly. This is my moment—
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” someone cracks from the table. “She’ll have your head.”
Atoc glares at the male relative who spoke. I wring my hands, trying to figure out how to steer the conversation back to my gift.
“She’s lucky to haveherhead,” Atoc growls. “Tamaya needs to be humbled. Look at this! Have you seen her do better?”
No one contradicts him. I peek at Rumi under my lashes. All this talk about my weaving must upset him. But instead of a scowl, he studies me with a speculative gleam in his dark eyes. A faint smile bends his full lips.
Atoc turns to face me. “Gracias. In the future, approach the high priest should you need to reach me.”
He sits as my composure threatens to crack. My smile suddenly hurts too much. I turn away from the family, but then Rumi loudly says, “I’m curious to see what you’ll give her in return, Shining One. Do you think you’ll be able to give her something better?”
I whirl around.
Atoc blinks in surprise. “The return gift, sí, of course. What would you like, wife?”
Now the label makes me squirm, but I somehow manage not to retch. I deserve something deep fried and smothered in chocolate for my efforts. “What can I have?”
“She’ll make a fine queen,” someone says at my roguish tone.
Atoc leans back in his chair. “My breakfast is getting cold. Make your request, and I’ll consider granting it.”
I pretend to think about it. “I’d like to meet the princesa and test my skill as a weaver against hers.” Hastily I add, “Your Shiningness.”
Rumi snorts. I guess that isn’t an official title. How am I supposed to know? I hear a new one every day. All eyes snap to their king. I wait, my breath caught at the back of my throat.
He shrugs and returns to his breakfast. “Granted. She needs a good put-down. You’ll meet her today. Now leave us.”
The relief nearly makes me light-headed. “Gracias, Your Majesty.”
“Where did you get the wool?” he asks gruffly.
“Some of it I brought with me,” I say. “The other—”
“I’ve been bringing it to her,” Rumi interrupts smoothly. “I thought Your Majesty would be pleased she practiced weaving.”
There’s a slight downward pull at the corners of the king’s mouth. “Thoughtful of you.”
