Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(27)

Rumi leans forward, his eyes intent on me. “So you didn’t?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about, Llacsan.”

He releases me and walks toward the chair. I suck in a quiet breath and fight the impulse to cry out when he lifts the tapestry, poring over every detail. “You made this.”

His tone suggests he doesn’t think me capable of creating something this beautiful.

“Yes.” I shift my feet, clasping and unclasping my hands.

What if he finds the message? It’s impossible, I know that, but his intense study increases my apprehension. Luna only reveals herself to Illustrians. The message won’t make sense to a Llacsan. He sees only the glimmer of light. A faint silver. A touch of magic. Only part of the picture.

“Aren’t we late?”

He merely grunts and continues studying the work. “That’s just something I say to get you out of my hands faster. You used several techniques in this, and they surprisingly work well together.”

I’m not sure what to respond to first. The first insult or the second.

“I told you I was a weaver. It’s why I asked for the loom.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t automatically trust the word of an Illustrian,” he says, finally looking away from the tapestry. His intense expression startles me. “I’ve never seen this color thread before. It’s glowing. It definitely wasn’t in the basket I sent up.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.

“Where did you get it?”

His scrutiny of the moon thread does nothing to settle my anxiety. I don’t want to share my magic with him. It’s mine. It brings me joy and peace and life. It hides the truth in plain sight.

Rumi wears his usual scowl as he waits for my answer. Which I absolutely won’t give.

Juan Carlos pokes his head inside the room. “Are you two coming or what? His Majesty hates when people arrive after him.” When he sees what’s in Rumi’s hand, he walks in, his mouth slightly agape. “Who gave you this gift, Condesa?”

I blink, long and slow and annoyed. “No one. This is my work.”

“Who knew you were so talented?” he says with a wink. “What do I have to sacrifice in order to get one?”

“I’m not wasting my wool on you.”

He shrugs and leans forward to study the tapestry alongside the healer. A flutter of unease spreads through me. Now there are two Llacsans studying my secret message to Catalina.

It’s taking all of my self-control to keep myself from ripping the tapestry out of their hands. I analyze both boys as they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent toward the shimmering thread. Rumi and Juan Carlos share almost the same height, have the same long, curling hair and dark eyes. They could be brothers. One with an eternal smile, the other an intolerable grump. I like people who fall somewhere in the middle.

“Are you related?” I ask.

The question seems to amuse Rumi. They both remain silent, engrossed by the moon thread.

“This would make an excellent gift for King Atoc,” Juan Carlos says, ignoring me.

My face blanches. That tapestry belongs to Catalina. It absolutely can’t be gifted to the usurper. “What? No. He hates me. He’d probably burn it or use it to wipe his—”

“What do you think?” Juan Carlos interrupts. “You’ve been so worried.”

Rumi growls. “Stop talking.”

“But you get what I’m suggesting?” He fingers the soft thread.

Rumi slowly nods. Then he picks up the tapestry and carries it out of the room, turning away from me as I try to reach for it. Anger sears me. What gives him the right to take my things? I used the majority of my wool on that message.

“Where are you taking my tapestry?” I ask. The healer ignores me. I stalk out of the room after him. “Who do you think you are?”

“You’re his responsibility,” Juan Carlos says, keeping in stride with me.

“So?”

“Everything you do reflects on Rumi.” Juan Carlos shoots me a pointed look.

He’s referring to my time in the dungeon.

“Not my problem.” I stop walking. “I’m not taking another step until you give me back my tapestry, Llacsan.”

Both of them pivot and reach for me, Juan Carlos on my left and Rumi on my right. They each grip an arm in a viselike hold that makes me flinch.

“Come along, Condesa,” Rumi says.

Madre de Luna. He actually sounds bored.

“It’s mine,” I say, digging my heels in. I can’t let them have it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. “Give it back.”

Juan Carlos locks the bedroom door. Working together, they drag me down the corridor, setting off for the great hall. I have no choice but to follow, stumbling over my long dress, cursing them both.

“My abuela would blush to hear you talk,” Juan Carlos says mildly, rounding one of the corners.

I sidestep a squawking chicken, and their hold loosens enough for me to jump, my fingers just grazing the wool. Rumi spins around, somehow forcing me toward the wall. I pull up my hands in time to save myself from the crash. I barely notice the sting on my palms.

“Where are you taking my tapestry? I worked on it for hours—give it back!”