Gods of Jade and Shadow(61)

“Did you get what you needed from the witch?” she asked, wishing to dissipate the fear that clung to her body.

“Indeed. I have the Uay Chivo’s address and the assurance that he keeps what I seek in his studio, behind a safe with three locks.”

“But you can open the locks.”

“Yes.”

“Do we go now then?” she asked, already squaring her shoulders.

“Why don’t you rest?” he replied.

“I slept for hours,” she protested.

“But you did not rest.”

“I say we go now.”

She made a motion as if to stand up, but he shook his head, his hand bidding her to halt in her efforts.

“He will be there tomorrow, no need to leave tonight,” he told her.

“Tomorrow I might be dead,” she countered, unable to conceal the edge of panic on which she danced. The dream had brought with it the whiff of the grave, the undeniable reminder that the sands of her life were being spent, that she needed to dislodge the bone shard.

“Not tomorrow,” he assured her.

“Would you even tell me if it was tomorrow?” she asked. “Or would you keep quiet?”

“I have not lied to you. Why should I deceive you now?”

“You didn’t tell me all. You didn’t say your brother means to rule and have offerings brought to him and…and all that.”

“I might have said it sooner, but I’ve said it now. You can trust me.”

Casiopea tried to grab the glass again, fumbled the job, and he lifted it instead and pressed it against her hands. There wasn’t much water left, so when she’d taken a couple of sips he dutifully filled it again, ensuring her thirst would be sated. She settled the glass on the night table.

“The Uay Chivo is a man, not a god, but he commands magic. I expect treachery from him and we must be alert; we will be unable to afford any distractions. We shall venture forth tomorrow night. Now, refrain from overexertion. Rest. Do not be afraid, fear will blind you.”

“It is easy to be unafraid if you are immortal,” she said. “Not if you are human.”

“Fear is generous and does not exclusively lodge in the hearts of mortals.”

“And what do gods fear?” she asked.

She’d asked the wrong question. Hun-Kamé had a rigid preciseness about him at all times; in that instant he seemed to become a wooden statue, even the dark eye growing hard. He would not answer, she realized, just as she had not spoken about the road of Xibalba or the blood. Some things are simply not said.

“I’m better now,” she said, picking an innocuous comment to distract them both. “We could fetch ourselves supper.”

“I can ask them to bring us food. What would you fancy?”

“I don’t know. We should phone the front desk.”

Casiopea turned her head; noticing the lavender rose by the phone, her fingers reached for the long stem, the delicate petals.

“My rose.”

“The witch gave it to you, so I thought I’d bring it with us,” he said. “You paid for it, after all.”

“But you didn’t put it in water. It is beginning to wilt,” she replied.

And again, the wrong thing to say, she realized, the reminder of death, putrefaction, the slim limits of existence, like a mantle over her shoulders. She sagged back against the pillows, tossing the rose onto the side table where she’d found it and pressing her hands against her temples, seized with a sudden burst of pain.

“Casiopea?”

“My head is throbbing. My mother used to tell me ‘Everything will look better in the morning,’?” she said. “Only it didn’t look any better, and I’m afraid it won’t look better tomorrow. It’s much worse…the ache. The ache in my hand and now in my head.”

“That is why I said to rest,” he told her.

“Rest, rest…It’s so annoying. You look…you look quite well. Amazing,” she said.

It was true. He did appear quite sleek and stylish. She remembered reading an ad that said most men look well in a navy double-breasted jacket. Of course he was magnificent; the wide lapels and slightly fitted waist only served to emphasize his strong shoulders and granted him a comfortable swagger. No doubt she looked half dead—which she was, very likely—and silly and panicky, unable to quench the anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Stupid, stupid dream. And she was stupid, too, for making such a fuss. She bit her lip.

“You shouldn’t look that good,” she muttered accusingly.

“I’m not feeling entirely well, either, if you must know.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He shrugged. She felt like pinching his arm. He couldn’t sit there, looking pensive, saying nothing. Her head was going to burst if he did.

“You have to tell me,” she said.

His back was tense, his brow furrowed, and when he spoke it was he who sounded as if he’d just woken from a strange dream. The words were stilted, which was unlike him. When he talked, he did it well. He carved each sentence with a graceful assurance. Each word was a jewel.

“It’s hard to say. Sometimes…when we are talking, it’s as if…I forget,” he mumbled.

“What do you forget?”