My heart stutters. “What do we do?”
Manuel reaches into his sack, the movement slow and almost clumsy as he struggles with the flap. He rummages inside the bag, and finally pulls out a small bottle filled with honey. He pulls the cork stopper with his teeth and then holds out the jar to me. “Dip your finger and dab honey on every single one of your wounds.”
“What will this do?”
“A healer in one of the villages I spent time in used this when treating similar bites.” He dips his index finger and spreads the gooey liquid on the irritated patches of his skin. I do the same, addressing the ones I can easily touch. “Every time I’ve used the honey, it’s helped the affected area.” He replaces the cork and tosses the jar back into his bag.
“Have you tried it for poison?”
“No,” he says shortly.
I don’t have any experience with poison. The idea of dying slowly, growing weaker and sicker, makes my stomach twist painfully and the breath catch at the back of my throat. My fingers curl into a tight fist, as if readying a fight against an invisible enemy.
Manuel nudges me with his knee. “We’re not dead yet, Condesa. Keep breathing—slowly. Let the honey do its work, and we’ll take it from there.”
I concentrate on keeping my panic at bay. My body is tense, strung so tightly that I fear I might snap. We sit for long minutes. I don’t know how much time passes. But the waiting doesn’t make me calm; it only fills me with dread. What if we’re getting worse?
But then something inside me shifts. The burning sensation slowly fades, leaving a dull ache. Without meaning to, my head drops onto Manuel’s shoulder, and he immediately stiffens. It’s noticeable enough for me to move away from him, my cheeks flushing.
He stands, using the wall to support his frame. Then he peers into the room, squinting a little against the stream of light. There are three pillars each situated an equal distance from one another, framing a triangle on the floor. They are covered in ornate carvings, and standing on the tops are marble statues. Each of the statues is different: One is of a pregnant woman, the other a young man, and the third a woman with a gentle motherly expression. They all face away from one another.
I stand, my knees shaking and my head spinning. Manuel casts a quick glance in my direction. “Are you all right? You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“So did you,” I say with a wan smile, my gaze roving the chamber. It feels old, the air stale and smelling of damp stone. “What is this place?”
“There are a few of these buildings in the jungle. I’ve come across at least four, but never stepped inside.” His hands skim the wall. “We shouldn’t stay long.”
“What about the butterflies?”
“They might be gone by now,” he says. “I don’t like the idea of staying in here—we’re too vulnerable. If the Illari come …”
I shudder. “You’re in charge.”
This makes him pause, a grudging smile bending his mouth. “Am I? Is that what you think?”
“You don’t remember what you said to me in the cave?” I deepen my voice. “‘Do exactly what I tell you; if I tell you to run, do it. If I tell you to act like a monkey, do it. If I tell you to walk backward and—’”
“I saidnothingof the sort.” He rolls his eyes. “And I don’t sound the least bit like that,” he says, exasperated. “But I’m pleased to hear youarepaying attention.”
More than he knows. It’s impossible not to notice how he’s filled out in the shoulders, developed muscles along his arms. I flush and avert my gaze. I feel his attention on me, a somewhat curious, perhaps even baffled air about him. He wants to know why I’m blushing. I squash the urge to look in his direction, and instead walk to the curtain of vines. But when I try to walk through, I’m met with a wall of stone. I step back, confused.
This is the entrance, isn’t it?
Manuel comes to stand next to me and sweeps the vines aside with his machete. The blade scratches the stone. I slap my palms against the rock and push—but it’s heavy and won’t move, not even an inch. Manuel imitates my stance, placing his hands close to mine.
“All right,” I say through a clenched jaw. “Now push.”
“Ihavebeen.” He shifts and leans against the wall, using his shoulder to help me shove, gritting his teeth and groaning with effort.
We might as well have tried moving a mountain with a shovel. The rock wall won’t budge. I back away, blinking at it, expecting it to disappear or evaporate or both. I look around the room, but there’s no other doorway. This is the only way out.
And it’s blocked.
A whisper of panic clings to my voice. “Manuel.”
He drags a long hand down his face. “That’s our exit. I know it is.”
“What could have happened?” I hate the panic in my words, hate it, but I can’t help it. “Why didn’t we hear it move? It’s stone. Shouldn’t it groan as it moves? Or does it screech?”
