Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(17)

Rumi scowls. “The human wart, you mean.”

I have my reservations about the vigilante, but upon hearing Rumi’s dislike, my respect for him soars. “He’s not so bad. And since you don’t like the subject, you can think of something to say next.”

“Generous of you,” he drawls. Another beat of silence, and then he adds, “Who trained you to fight?”

I frown. “How did you know I could fight?”

“Do you often carry around daggers as adornments?” His sarcastic tone feels like a smack. “I saw you fight in the courtyard.”

I wince. My accursed temper will be the death of me, no doubt. But at least word will spread that the Illustrians and their condesa aren’t to be underestimated. “We all learn to fight, Llacsan. Or did you think we sat around all day admiring ourselves?”

Rumi stops at a heavy wooden door, the middle in a long line. I wonder who else sleeps on this floor. He turns to face me. “It certainly wouldn’t surprise me.”

As if we lazy aristocrats are capable of only climbing in and out carriages. As if we aren’t capable of surviving. “I don’t even own a hairbrush,” I mutter.

The corners of his mouth deepen, as if he fights a reluctant smile. Or a smirk. Then it’s smoothed away by hostility. “This is you,” he says. “You’re not to leave unless escorted—”

“I remember.”

“Fine,” he says, waspish. He gestures to the guard on his left. He’s almost Rumi’s height, with long hair that brushes past his shoulders. They look about the same age, but this one smells better. Woodsy with a hint of mint. “This is Juan Carlos. If you need to find me, ask him. He’ll be outside your door all night.”

I stare at the guard. “Nice to meet you.”

Juan Carlos’s lips twitch at my sarcasm.

“I’ll come for you ma?ana.” Rumi opens the door, and Juan Carlos ushers me inside.

The lock slides into place.



Someone has done a thorough job of going through my bag. Everything has been dumped on the floor. All of my clothes, gone. My boots and strappy sandals remain. They let me keep my llama wool, a knotty mess that’ll take hours to untangle.

Looking around, I curl my lip. My room is the color of pigskin. It’s a narrow rectangle, with one big window at the end that leads out to a balcony. The bed has a woven striped blanket and a pillow. A real, honest-to-Luna pillow. I haven’t slept on one since I was a child.

There’s a handsome wooden dresser with knobs painted in turquoise—of course—and a reading chair propped in the corner. A matching striped rug covers the floor.

Throwing open the balcony doors, I let the evening air in, not caring if fat mosquitos wander through. The balcony looks sturdy, but even so, I don’t venture out. I’m on the third floor. High enough to unsettle my nerves. But the fresh air feels nice, and it gives me a glimpse of La Ciudad. The bell tower strikes the seventh hour. I look for home, but it’s too dark to see the fortress, even with all of Luna’s stars.

They’re no doubt settling in for the night. Making do with the food on hand. Bowls of quinoa and several pitchers of jugo de lima on the table, Catalina at the head, smiling and beginning the meager meal with a prayer to Luna.

I said goodbye to her only this morning and already I miss her. She’ll expect some word from me soon. I have to find a loom, have to tell her about the wedding during Carnaval.

Carnaval. An Illustrian three-day festival honoring the moon and stars. Parades and costumes, sticky desserts sold on every street corner, dancing and music. It was my favorite time of year. But the Llacsans have claimed it as their own: Now during our holiday, they celebrate the Llacsan sun god and Mother Earth—Inti and Pachamama. The grand finale is a human sacrifice of someone around my age.

I take a deep breath, and another. I still have time—weeks—before then.

The door opens, and I spin away from the balcony. Servants carry in a metal tub. More follow with pails of water. I don’t bother hiding my surprise. I’m allowed a bath? With the water shortage in La Ciudad, how is that possible? Is it special treatment? Perhaps Atoc wants to show off his wealth. I suppose it doesn’t matter if he’s “wasteful” anyway. In his mind, access to our spring is a guarantee.

The room teems with people. Two young girls come in bearing long skirts and floral stitched tunics with ruffles, frilled collars, and scalloped hemlines, the fabrics ranging from buttery yellow to lime green. The mantillas are lacy with fringed hems, and there are a couple of fajas, wide belts, in a deep red. Llacsan clothing. No one in the room openly acknowledges me, and those I catch looking in my direction twist their lips in disgust, as if they’ve found a cucaracha in their soup.

After they leave, the guard locks up and I’m alone except for a girl who stands, staring at me, her dark eyes unreadable, from the corner of the room. She might be my age, although a full head shorter than me. Her pollera, a pleated skirt that stops at her ankles, rustles in the night breeze sweeping the room. A cream-hued manta made of llama wool is wrapped around her shoulders.

“?Sí?” I ask.

“Your new clothes are a gift from His Majesty,” she says stiffly. “I’m to take your old things with me.”

I gesture toward my bag. “I think you already did.”