Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(24)

I smile—a triumphant smile that spreads from ear to ear. “I want a loom.”

Rumi takes a step back, stunned, his dark eyes widening. There’s a long beat of silence.

“Well?”

“Why,” he asks carefully, “do you want a loom?”

“I like to weave.”

Rumi frowns. “That’s not an Illustrian hobby.”

I shrug. So I shouldn’t like to weave because of who I am? That’s ridiculous. I like creating with my hands. There’s something rewarding about making art out of nothing. The tucking and untucking, the folding over and under. Repeating until a bright new thing winks back at me. I make tapestries with my own two hands. There isn’t anything better than creating something beautiful, especially if it hides a message that can save my people. Who gives a damn if I’m an Illustrian or not? The loom can’t tell the difference.

“You really like to weave?” he asks in a skeptical tone.

I shake my head. “No, I really love to weave.”

A peculiar expression crosses his face, incredulousness mixed with surprise. I know what he thinks of me—or rather, the condesa, Catalina—spoiled, vain, and useless with a streak of cruelty. That’s what all Llacsans say. It’s how they define us. Illustrians are cruel. Monsters and oppressors. Harbingers of disease and misfortune.

We invaded their lands, sure, but they’d invaded the original natives of Inkasisa—the Illari. Driven them away until they disappeared into the Yanu Jungle, left to fight poisonous insects and snakes and the untamed wild. We aren’t all that different from the Llacsans.

We’d just won.

Rumi studies me, his head tilted slightly to the side. Another beat of silence follows, my heart thundering in my chest. I need him to get me that loom. If he doesn’t …

“I’ll see if I can find one in the castillo,” he says at last. “If not, I’ll have to send for one.”

My relief nearly sends me to my knees. It worked.

He holds out his hand. “Your wrists.”

I hesitate. I have a profound respect for healers. They fix people. It’s something to admire, the ability to make someone better and whole. I don’t want to confuse Rumi for one of them. He’s my enemy and always will be.

“I can do it myself,” I say stiffly. “Just tell me what to do.”

Rumi lets out an exasperated sigh. He drops the basket by my feet, snatches my hand, turns my knuckles downward, and drops the herbs into my palm. I let out a small yelp, but he ignores it. He steps away and leans against the bars.

“I brought several remedies,” he says in a curt tone. “Use the vinegar to disinfect the wounds first.”

“Vinegar?” My wounds already blister; adding something that acidic will feel as if I’ve stuck my hands in a fire.

“It’ll heal faster,” he says, a hint of challenge in his eyes.

That pushes me. I sit down, my legs folded over each other, and pull the basket closer. Holding up a glass vial with what looks like white vinegar, I wait for Rumi’s go-ahead. He nods, and I find a cloth inside the basket then soak a corner of it.

I take a deep breath and press the rag against my burns. The intense sting makes me bite my lip. A cold, sharp ache follows a loud rushing noise in my ears that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I take away the cloth, eyes watering. I suddenly realize Rumi is sitting in front of me.

“I’ll get this done in a moment,” he says briskly.

I faintly nod, my wrist screaming. He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and cleans my wrist. He takes out a bandage and then presses the herbs—dried lavender—and wraps everything together, finishing with a tight knot. Rumi quickly cleans my other hand, and I try not to make a sound.

Once finished, he gathers his supplies and stands. I remain on the ground. My head swims, and I’m weirdly light-headed.

“We need to do that once a day,” he says in that same brisk tone. “Don’t sleep on your hands.”

“I want the loom.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I said I’ll get it, and I will.”

He leaves without a backward glance. I crawl to the stone wall and lean against it, appreciating its harsh coldness. My wrists feel like they’re on fire. I tip my head back, and my gaze snags on a word etched into the stone, just above eye level. I reach for it, sink my finger into the crevices, the edges sharp. Courage, it says, written in Castellano. Whoever carved this message must have been an Illustrian. I close my eyes, my finger tracing the word as if it’s a lifeline, as if it connects me to the person who carved it.

My heart whispers a name, and I believe it.

Ana.



Rumi visits again. Instead of the loom, he brings that infernal medicine basket and a book.

A book.

I frown. What is this? Reading in the dim light will give me a headache. “That’s not a loom.”

He holds out the book in between the bars. “Take it.”

I eye it warily. Studying is more Catalina’s thing. At the keep, it’s a normal occurrence to see her surrounded by piles of books in the library. Everyone is given access to these written tales, all the ones that survived the revolt. But it’s Catalina who painstakingly keeps track of each page and tome. “I’m actually not much of a reader.”