Chaska shakes her head then looks toward the sun. “We can’t miss the fiesta; our presence will be noti—”
“I agree,” Kusi says, and his gaze flickers to mine. “Go get dressed. Your guard and I will keep searching.”
“My guard has a name,” I say coolly. Said guard sends me a quick smile from over the ledge. “And I can keep looking.”
“You’re the guest of honor,” Chaska says. “It’ll appear suspicious if you’re late.”
Reluctantly, I leave them, trudging down the many steps until I reach the lowest level. As I sweep through the market, I spot the lady whose son I helped search for closing up her stall. She stops slamming barrel lids and folding mantillas long enough to wave at me.
“Did he turn up?” I call out.
The woman rolls her eyes. “He’ll turn up at the festival. If there’s singani available, he’s sure to find it.”
I laugh and pick up my pace as the sun disappears behind the mountain.
After a quick bath in the pool, I return to my home and find that someone has left a long tunic for me to wear to the fiesta. It’s patterned in the beautiful geometric designs I’ve come to associate with the Illari, all shades of red and pink and violet. The fringed hem skims the top of my ankles, and I love the way it looks when I spin. On my feet, I wear the lovely sandals Sonco gave me. I leave my hair down, curly and wild with a single orange flower as an ornament.
Manuel doesn’t show up, so I walk alone back up the many flights of stairs, following a small crowd as the stars glimmer miles above our heads. I must’ve taken longer than I thought—the village seems mostly empty and quiet. My stomach gives off an embarrassingly loud rumble, and I cast a nervous glance around me. Everyone is wearing beautiful tunics in a variety of different styles and lengths. Most have fringe lining the hems and sleeves. Some Illari have feathers woven into their braids, or thick leather bands serving as hair decorations.
When we reach the temple, I’m surprised to see it already near capacity. There must be hundreds of Illari here, milling around, talking and eating. I search for my companions, but they haven’t arrived yet. They must still be looking for the flower.
Several people dance in front of the musicians, who beat their drums and play the charangos. In the dance, women hop and skip in tune to the melody, holding a strip of fabric behind their backs, one end in each hand. They raise the cotton high over their heads and let it flutter above them like a wispy cloud. While they form a tight ring, men encircle them, crouched with their arms thrown out. Every leap from one foot to the other is followed by a resounding stomp and a mock punch. The rhythm is warlike and dangerous.
I’ve never seen this kind of dance before.
“Tinku,” Nina, the bathhouse attendant, says to me. “It’s a traditional dance. See how the men seem to be fighting? It’s in praise of Pachamama.”
“It’s fierce,” I say. “Beautiful.”
The men keep dancing in the tight circle, and as they stomp by, I catch sight of a familiar face.
Manuel.
Manuel,dancing.
He moves perfectly, in tune with the constant beating of the drum and the other men parading in the circle, his leaps and jumps high. In all the long years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him even tap his front foot. He lied to me!
“Want to learn it?” Nina asks.
I turn to her, my eyes wide. “Yes,por favor.”
She tugs me toward a few other women waiting for their turn to dance, and soon they’re all teaching me the moves. I stumble through most of it, laughing at the mistakes I make. For once, I don’t think about the Llacsan queen or the dying jungle. I let myself feel the music, throwing my head back and giving in to the steps. I lose track of time as I master parts of the dance and botch the rest. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a very, very long time.
Aside from kissing Manuel.
I notice him across the room, leaning against the wall, sipping idly from a clay cup and watching me. Our eyes clash. I know I should leave him alone, but I can’t stop myself from staring. I crook my finger at him, and he smiles slightly before pressing off the wall and threading through the crowd. He reaches my side and I take his cup from him, drinking deeply.
“Sure,” he says dryly. “Help yourself.”
I return his drink. “The flower?”
He shakes his head grimly. “Nothing.”
Fear pools in my belly. Did I somehow read the stars wrong? Perhaps Kusi was right and I’d been too hasty to share what I’d seen.
“Stop it,” he says.
I raise a brow. “What?”
