Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(23)

Rumi turns the key, opens the door, and forcefully throws the blanket at my face. The basket with food he drops by the door. “Oh, I’m in complete agreement with you. We’re certainly different.”

“Fundamentally.”

He runs a cold, assessing eye over my person, seemingly dismissing me, until his attention focuses on my wrists. I tuck them behind my back, wrapping them around my ruined dress.

“Let me see.”

“Go away,” I snarl.

He takes a step closer. “Show me where it hurts.”

“ándate a la mierda.” Showing him my wounds feels wrong. They’re raw, and they badly sting. I don’t want him near me, let alone examining my injuries.

“Fine,” he snaps when it becomes clear I won’t give in. The door to my cell clangs shut behind him, ringing in my ears. “Someone will be down with a chamber pot.”

My stomach twists at the thought of relieving myself in the room where I ate my dinner, but hunger wins, and I eat the marraqueta loaf, queso blanco, and plátanos in one sitting.

The chamber pot is delivered. The guards set up cacho, a Llacsan dice game, where they play by torchlight. Their hollering and laughing keeps me up for hours, so I sit in the corner of my cell, glaring in their general direction for most of the night.



Rumi returns sometime later. A full day may have passed. By now I’ve taken several hundred restless turns in the cell. I want to scream in frustration. I have to get out of here. Illustrians are depending on me; Catalina is depending on me. I still don’t have any idea of how I can get a loom.

Then there’s the not so small matter of my raw wrists.

They’re getting worse—bubbling and oozing. Without proper care, infection will set in. The infection will lead to a fever, and I’ll be useless if I get sick.

Nothing can jeopardize my mission. Nothing.

The loud clang of the lock sliding open makes me turn toward the dungeon’s door. Rumi approaches, carrying another basket. I’d been fed earlier by one of the guards, and the blanket hasn’t been taken away. What is he doing down here?

He takes the keys to the cell off the rusty nail and uses them to come inside my prison. “Let’s get this over with, Condesa.” He gives me a resigned look.

My fingers twitch as if reaching for my blades, but I have only my hurting hands to defend myself with. “Get ready for what?”

He pulls a carefully wrapped package slowly from the basket.

I frown. “What’s that for?”

Rumi opens the folds, revealing pressed herbs. He means to treat my rope burns.

I back away. “You’re not coming near my wrists.” He’ll be rough, and heaven knows what else he has in that basket. He might make things worse, then I’ll be ruined. I need to be alert, to somehow find a loom so I can write my messages for Catalina. If he drugs me, or puts the wrong medication on my wounds, I’ll have to recover and I don’t have time for that. “I want to see a healer.”

He lifts a dark brow. “I am a healer, you fool.”

I purse my lips. “You?”

Somehow that doesn’t fit. To heal people, you have to understand them. You have to take the time to listen and actually hear what bothers them. Rumi doesn’t strike me as a good listener. It does, however, explain why his clothes reek of burnt leaves.

“Yes,” he says. “Me. It’s my Pacha magic. I don’t have all day, and I will literally sit on you to get this done, Condesa. Don’t fight me on this.”

If he thinks I’m going to willingly submit to his treatment, he’s in for a surprise, healer or no. I’m not going to risk my hands for nothing. I need to weave my messages.

He takes a step forward.

I take a step back. Glancing over my shoulder, I calculate how many moves I have left. About three more steps until my back reaches the cold stone. An idea streaks through my mind, bright like a shooting star. I hold on to it as if my life depends on it. And in a way, it does. “What’s in it for me?”

Rumi blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s in it for you?” he repeats. “How about not having to deal with an infection? Not succumbing to fever? Avoiding death?”

I shake my head. “That benefits you. I’m your charge, right? What would it look like if you couldn’t keep one girl alive? Will the king still trust you if his soon-to-be wife falls ill?”

A scowl rips through his face, sudden and fierce. “The mark of a true Illustrian. Always wanting more than their due. Well? What is it?”

“I want your promise that you’ll bring me what I ask for.”

“My promise?” he says, raising his voice to a near shout. “As if you have any room to negotiate—”

“I’ll fight you if you take one step closer,” I snap. “Hear this, Llacsan: I can make your life easier or much, much worse. Give me what I ask for, and I’ll let my wrists be treated. That’s what I’m proposing.”

“What do you want?” His voice comes out in a growl.

“The promise first.”

He rolls his eyes until the whites show. “I promise to bring what you ask for—within reason. I can’t guarantee your release. At present, the king won’t let anyone breathe your name.”