Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(26)

My breath catches in the back of my throat. No matter how many times I’ve used Luna’s rays to make thread, each time the shimmer of magic courses through me, it surprises me. I can feel my wounds, internal and external, closing and healing. I am made whole. Not quite happy, but Luna’s soft touch heals what she can.

With the moon thread wrapped around my index finger, I wind the strand around and around, forming a glittering silver ball. It lights up the whole room, and everything it touches shimmers and shines, awash in Luna’s glow.

Now the real work begins. It takes all of my discipline, all of my energy, to weave my secret message into the tapestry. Hours pass. Moonlight winks and glitters and turns into dust as I work the thread. The dust flutters to my feet, sparkling brightly, like the stars peppering the dark night.

My shoulders and neck stiffen, my fingers cramp.

But at last, I finish.

The moon thread shimmers and touches ordinary strands of llama wool, blending the words into the diamond pattern. Only an Illustrian will be able to read them: WEDDING DURING CARNAVAL.

After some considering, I add a swarm of bees to the tapestry in a honey-hued string as a way to distract from the message. Or maybe because I want to use the bright yellow color. I weave in the moon thread to add a touch of sparkle to their wings then bend close to examine my work.

One of the wings twitches beneath my thumb.

Gasping, I bring the tapestry closer. The wing flutters again and stills. My fingers clutch the thread tighter.

?Qué diablos? Did I really just see the tapestry move? I must be tired, or … I had really seen …

I lean closer. “Do it again,” I whisper.

But the wing stays put.

I study the tapestry. Is Luna trying to tell me something? Weave more bees? Add something else to the message? Go to sleep, Ximena, it’s nearly morning?

I stand, reaching high until my back cracks. I must have imagined it.

Quickly, I gather up the moondust. Cielos, if a guard—or worse, Rumi—finds it, what would they do? It’s a relief to have some on hand again, but without a broom, I have to gather the dust with my hands. By the time I finish, my knees drag on the floor. I devour my cold dinner—still delicious, damn them—before I flop onto the bed, my eyes heavy with sleep. But a nagging thought prevents me from drifting.

How am I going to get the tapestry out of the castillo?



The Llacsan maid holds out a dress, trying to push the yards of fabric into my arms. I want to swat her advances away like she’s a mosquito. But she prevails. I glare, staring at the ruffles and black lace tickling my chin.

Atoc demands that I attend court. And not just today, but every court day in the foreseeable future. I’m expected to dress in the finery of his choosing, my hair styled in the Llacsan fashion of two long braids down the back, and my lips painted a cayenne-pepper red.

Nothing I say or do changes the maid’s mind. Sensing my dwindling protests, she begins braiding my hair. When she finishes, she points to my tapestry, draped over the chair.

I nod. “Yes, mine, I did it.”

She seems surprised and maybe a little curious, given the way she stares at me, her head tilted and her eyes crinkling. She hands me a little pot of dyed wax for my lips. I let her finish my makeup and then at last, at long last, she gives me her idea of a look of approval.

By that I mean, she isn’t scowling at me.

She finishes tying the black bow on my back. My dress is a dark yellow that reminds me of honey. The same color as the bees woven into my tapestry. I can’t believe I thought they actually moved. How long has it been since I had a real Luna-blessed night’s sleep?

The door opens—no one in the castillo seems to know how to knock—and the guard ushers Rumi in. The maid nods once in his direction and then leaves.

He stops short at the sight of me.

For a moment he appears stunned. Then his face resets to its usual haughty lines: His dark brows pull together with a sharp crease in between, and his lips press into a thin slash. “Who gave you that dress?” He sounds furious.

I haven’t said a word and I’ve already done something wrong. It’s not like I had a choice in what to wear. “I’m not changing,” I say through my teeth.

“?Qué?” he snaps, his hand on the doorknob. “Did I say you had to?”

“You didn’t have to say it.”

“That dress—” He breaks off, his mouth twisting.

“What about it?”

He shakes his head.

“?Qué te pasa?” I ask, impatient.

“We’re late. Forget I said anything. Can you walk and talk at the same time? King Atoc, ruler of the Great Lake, of El Altiplano and all the land in between—”

His voice hits a worshipping note that makes me snort.

“—wants you up front.”

I grab a fistful of the dress—it’s nearly a foot too long—and sweep past him. But as I do, he suddenly reaches out and takes hold of my upper arm.

“What,” he asks, “is that?”

I follow his line of sight to my tapestry. It takes everything in me to keep my face perfectly neutral. To not react or stiffen or jerk away in surprise. The rest of me blazes. All of my senses are on high alert, crying out a warning.

“Did you meet her?” His eyes snap to mine.

I blink in confusion. “Who?”