Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(19)

My hands itch for something to throw at his head. Instead I curl them as I look for my boots. Everything from the day before comes back to me in a rush: the ride to the castillo, Sofía, meeting Atoc, that frigid bath.

I start taking off the extra clothes but pause when I register his eyes widening. I turn away, surprised at the warmth spreading to my cheeks. I’ve never had a boy in my room before. Catalina had her flirtations among the aristócratas, but nothing ever came from those coy exchanges. I’d had no flirtations, coy or otherwise. It seemed cruel, considering my job. Why reach for a future that couldn’t be counted on? Why give in to a longing that’ll only cause pain? No one would really be flirting with me, but the condesa they thought I was. I am a decoy first. I trained, pretended to be Catalina, and tried to make Ana proud. That has been and will be my life until I can finally take my mask off and be me—Ximena.

“How could you possibly have fallen asleep in all that?” Rumi mutters. He’s leaning against the wall, holding on to the flickering torch. Whatever shadows remain in the brightening room dance across his face. His clothing is a watered-down version of Atoc’s from the day before, a well-made tunic of quality cotton, dark pants, and leather sandals. The faint smell of wet dirt and burnt ragweed attacks my senses. Does he ever wash his clothes?

Rumi lifts the corner of his mouth, as if my discomfort amuses him. I ignore him, and quickly step out of a skirt and pull the extra two tunics off.

The same girl who took the rest of my clothes the night before enters—without knocking—and holds up a dress that’s yards long and outfitted in every color of the rainbow. It’s clear the previous owner was taller than me since pollera skirts are supposed to stop at the ankles. Delicate white lace lines the hem, and I spot several ruffles decorating the short sleeves. All in all, the entire ensemble reminds me of the jam-filled pastries my mother used to buy in La Ciudad when I was a child. Puffed up and frilly. Catalina would have loved it.

“Do you need help dressing?” the girl asks stiffly.

“No,” I say as Rumi says, “Yes.”

I glare at him. He merely smiles again and leaves, calling over his shoulder, “Juan Carlos will take you outside. You have ten minutes.”

That bastard. He wanted to wake me, wanted to see my expression while he gave me the news about the parade. I’m still fuming as the girl helps me dress, tucking me inside the gown, tying bows, and laying all the ruffles where they ought to be. She pinches my cheeks, adds rouge to my lips, and braids my hair. She hands me leather sandals, and I’m surprised to see they’re a perfect fit. Her doing, most likely, given her satisfied smile.

Apparently pleased with my appearance, she leaves and Juan Carlos steps inside. “Ready, Condesa?”

“In a minute.” I start to make the bed. Some habits are hard to break. Coming back to a clean room always makes me calmer. In control and organized.

The guard stands off to the side, leaning against the wall. He watches me silently fold the sheets, tucking each corner until they sit crisp and flat. I pull the blanket off the floor, finally dry, and smooth it over the bed. The top still needs to be folded down.

“I didn’t expect you to handle chores meant for maids,” Juan Carlos says.

“I think it’s best if you keep your expectations to yourself from now on.”

“Whatever you want.”

The next minute we’re out the door, the guard at my side. I can feel his gaze on me. He keeps pace, and despite Rumi’s command to hurry, this guard doesn’t rush me. I peek up at him. He’s still watching me. I’m amazed how he’s deftly avoiding trampling on a wandering chicken.

“Stop staring at me,” I say through gritted teeth.

He sounds amused. “Sleep well?”

“Fine.”

“Bed comfortable enough for you?”

He almost sounds like he’s teasing me. “So, you’re a friendly guard.”

“Yes,” he says dramatically. “One of those.”

“Ugh.”

That makes him laugh. His smiles come easy and free, unlike Rumi’s. Juan Carlos shoots me a wink, coaxing me to engage with him. To grin or laugh. I force my expression to retain a careful blankness that reveals nothing, especially to a guard who might use whatever he can find against me. After all, I am a decoy.



Atoc leads a procession on horseback into the city. He’s dressed and adorned in an elaborate robe with detailed stitching of various flowers found in the wild, and a headdress that wraps around his gold crown; on his wrists are gold bracelets. No Estrella. Horn blowers alert La Ciudad of his approach.

I follow yards behind his retinue, Juan Carlos next to me. Craning my neck, I try to spot Illustrian spies in the growing crowd outside the city gates.

“See anyone you know?” he asks.

“If I did, you’d be the last person I’d tell.”

Neither my tone nor my words seem to bother him. He’s all smiles, waving at the people as if he were the main event of this spectacle of a parade. And the people eat him up as if he were dipped in dulce de leche. After a few minutes of playing the crowd, he shifts in his saddle and tries to engage me in conversation. Again.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

My lips thin. His affability is clearly a tactic to get me to trust him—which will never happen.