Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(39)

Restless energy keeps me from calming down. I’m just about to throw back the covers when the guard opens the door. Rumi walks in, takes one look at me in bed, and frowns.

“You really are sick,” he says.

I widen my gaze. “What?”

He comes up to the bed and settles a hand on my forehead. “You’re flushed and a little warm. How are you feeling?”

I feel like I might die from embarrassment, and yourself? I move away, forcing his hand to drop to his side. “I’m fine. No need to trouble yourself.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Why didn’t you eat your dinner? It’s not like you.”

I shrug. “Not hungry. It happens sometimes.”

He lifts a dark brow. Just the one.

“Does everyone think I’m some sort of cow?” I ask, exasperated. When he opens his mouth to respond, I hold up my hand. “Don’t answer that.”

“Have you been using the koka leaf?” he demands.

My jaw drops. “What? No. I’ve seen what it does to people.”

His expression darkens. “Don’t ever use it. Even with one use, you could become addicted. Too many people in this castillo already are.”

“And you’re the one who looks after them. That must be exhausting.”

“Don’t tell me you’re concerned.”

My voice rises. “Of course I’m not.”

“I’ll ask Suyana to make you té de maté,” he says with a trace of amusement at my loud protest. “You don’t have too high of a fever. Stay in bed and rest tomorrow. I’ll let the king know you’re ill.”

Suyana? I’m about to ask, but it hits me that he might be talking about my maid. I never thought to ask her name. “If you knew me better, you’d know that’s an impossible task. I’d rather swallow a hornet than stay in bed all day.”

“If you knew me, you’d know to take my advice,” he says idly. “It won’t be so bad. You can weave—”

“Except I don’t have any wool.”

“You can read a book—”

“Except I don’t have a book.”

He looks at me.

My face flushes. I almost forgot. I did have a book, but I left it down in the dungeon.

I meet his gaze. “Do you think if we weren’t at war, we’d be friends?”

He seems to seriously consider the query. “I honestly don’t know. But if we can, it’d certainly bode well for the future.”

I find I agree with him. Maybe it’s not an impossible ask. Things would certainly be easier if Catalina had the full support of the Llacsans. I wonder what it would take. Would Rumi ever stand with the real condesa? A long silence follows. For some reason, I don’t mind his company, despite the heavy stench of ragweed coming from his clothes.

“You should wash those,” I blurt out.

He tucks his hands into his pocket, and the corners of his mouth deepen. “What now?”

“Your clothes. Do you have a pet skunk? They smell like you’ve been running around with one. I know there’s a water shortage, but I think you could find a stream and a bar of soap somewhere.”

I expect him to retreat behind his scowl and hunched shoulders. Instead he smiles, a fleeting and private smirk that’s gone as soon as I catch it.

“A pet skunk. I like that.”

“I can’t believe your cousin hasn’t kicked you out. It’s that strong.”

He smiles again. The expression transforms his face, softening the sharp angles. A single dimple appears in the middle of his cheek, just above his scruff. “You’re welcome to wash them for me.”

I don’t miss the slightly teasing tone.

He doesn’t either.

Rumi backs away from the bed as if it’s on fire. I sink deeper under the covers, flushing. The brief moment tricks me. For a second it’s like we’re friends.

But that’s nowhere near the truth.

“I think I’ve done about all I can for you,” he says at last.

I twist the sheets around my fingers. His voice holds a new note. A little sad, maybe. He isn’t talking about me being sick, I don’t think.

“Rest, Condesa.” He turns to leave.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach for his wrist. “Wait, healer.”

We both glance at my hand in surprise. I’ve never willingly touched him before. I withdraw my hand, mortified. He peers down at me, blinking in confusion. The candlelight casts shadows across his angular face. He has a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks for coming up,” I mumble, and turn away on my side, my cheek resting on the pillow.

I pretend to fall asleep so I don’t have to look at him anymore. And then I fall asleep for real. Hours later, I sit up with a start. I blink at the room, confused by the darkness. My dream was about setting a fire, and I remembered I didn’t blow out the candles. But someone clearly did. I fumble for the matchsticks next to my bed and light one of the candles on the nightstand.

It’s still dark out—perfect for exploration. I throw back the covers and my gaze lands on a book lying next to the candle. A mug of cold tea sits next to it. Leaning closer, I read the title in the flickering light. Historia de las Llacsans. Rumi had gone down to the dungeons and brought it back while I slept.