Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(37)

Not a damn thing.

Unrest among the Llacsans is a good thing. Let the princesa be executed, then. It might make a difference for Catalina’s bid for the throne.

Thankfully, Rumi seems to be of the same mindset, as he doesn’t talk to me either. I never press him for the wool I need. There has to be another avenue for me to pursue.

As the next three days blur together, I settle on a routine. In the mornings I eat desayuno sitting outside on the balcony, examining the comings and goings through the large iron gate to the side of the garden. All the servants enter and exit the castillo and into the city through that gate. Midafternoon, I study hallways and entrances, memorizing the castillo layout. In the evenings, the gardens have my sole attention. I know every corner, and I sit and observe members of the court as they flit around the tall plants. They’re a wealthy and bored bunch. Their loud chatter ricochets off the stone walls as they lounge on couches. Most of the time their eyes are red-rimmed, and they act drowsy, as if bone-tired.

But they aren’t dropping from mere exhaustion. Many of them are consumers of the koka leaf, made accessible thanks to our good and wise king. What a mess. The whole of Inkasisa will become addicted to the drug, Illustrians and Llacsans alike.

Though guards dog my every move, I also have the distinct feeling I’m being carefully observed by the priest and his followers. Signs like a tickle on the back of my neck. A creeping sensation that raises goose bumps on my arms. A flash of an eggplant-colored robe ducking around a corner.

Why are the priest’s minions stalking me? Did the order come from Atoc? I start keeping moondust in my pockets, just in case. It helps knowing I have some way of defending myself if the situation ever comes to that.

I often cross paths with Sajra. He seems to be everywhere at once. Coming out of meetings with the king, heading to the kitchens, walking the gardens. His horde of attendants sticks to him like sap to a tree. Their watchful eyes dart from person to person as they follow the priest.

They don’t miss much when it comes to the happenings in the castillo. Sajra certainly benefits from all the information. What he does with it, I can only guess.

At night I eat alone in my room and plan for the next day. It’s time to focus on the Estrella. I’ve mapped out the majority of the castillo, memorized the guard’s movements, their shifts, and what weapons they carry. I make a restless turn around my room, wringing my hands. Tension edges my shoulders. I only have the east wing of the castillo left to explore, and it’s been nearly impossible to view the entire length of it. Atoc and his entourage crowd that side, and as a result more guards patrol it.

My mind races with possible excuses I could have for visiting the hall. There’s nothing out of the ordinary to tour there except painting after painting of various animals.

I sigh. The paintings are my best option.

I pound on the door until the guard—Pablo? Pidru? Pedro?—opens it. “I think I’ll explore the castillo today, instead of the gardens. I haven’t seen all the paintings in the east wing, and they really are beautiful, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “His Radiance said seeing the castillo and its grounds were fine, provided you had a guard with you at all times.”

I hide my smile. “Let’s head there, then.”

He points down a random corridor. I stride off, and then slow my steps and pretend to study the first painting I encounter. A detailed drawing of a llama. The guard stops at my side. I catch Atoc and his entourage at the end of the hall, climbing the stone steps that lead farther down the east wing. I lean closer to the painting, tilting my head ever so slightly to get a better view.

I wonder where they go every day. Perhaps to his office. The thought is tantalizing. What sorts of secrets could be hidden in his private space? The guard clears his throat and I straighter. I sigh and move on to the next painting, pretending to be enthralled by yet another llama. The guard clears his throat again, this time louder and a bit longer, and I smile as I lean forward.

This continues until Atoc and his entourage are walking toward us, deep in conversation, coming back from wherever they had gone in the east wing. They pass by without a look in my direction. I’m nothing, barely taking up space in his life. His indifference only propels me onward.

I can’t properly explore the east wing with this guard breathing down my neck. Maybe I can bore him enough to leave me? I stop at the next painting and force myself to ponder every stroke. After doing this eight more times, the guard glances at me. “You’ll stay on the first floor?”

“Yes,” I say, then, “?Por qué?”

He hesitates. “My son is sick, and I’d like to speak to the healer about giving him more té de maté. We only have a few hours left before the dinner bell. I want to catch him before he leaves the infirmary.”

My chest tightens as I picture the little boy playing outside in the garden. For some inexplicable reason, it bothers me to hear about his illness.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sorry your son is sick.”

The words hang in the air, and I’m surprised to realize I mean them. I hate being sick. It means being trapped inside and not leaving my bed. Catalina insisted I was actually doing something by letting myself recover. I never felt that way.

“You’re sure?”

I nod. “Go take care of your son.”

“I won’t be gone long. Just depends how long the line is.” He still seems unsure. Stalling.