Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(50)

My fingers curl into a fist. I’ll do it tonight. I have the disguise.

“You haven’t said a contrary or sarcastic thing in ten minutes,” Rumi says suddenly. “Are you feeling ill?”

“Can’t I be—I don’t know—deep in thought?”

He exhales and some of his exasperation escapes with his breath. “It’s hot. Come with me to the fountain.”

Said fountain is in the middle of the garden courtyard. I glance at it and then back to him. “I’m comfortable where I am.”

He stands and holds out his hand.

I roll my eyes but let myself be dragged toward the fountain. “You’re so bossy.”

“I swear to Inti,” he says, letting go of my wrist. “You try the patience of a saint.”

“You aren’t a saint, Llacsan. No matter what your mother might have told you.”

For some reason this makes him smile. Warmth spreads throughout my body as if someone has draped a cloak around my shoulders. We sit on the fountain’s edge and dip our fingers into the water, hauled in from a lake nearby. He drips some of it onto his face and neck. I frown. Outside the castillo, everyone else has to pay for the water from small lakes and streams. In here, we have more than we need. Enough to fill fountains. I wonder if the Llacsan journalists wrote about that in their publication.

“What’s that expression for?” he asks.

“Honestly?”

“I didn’t know you could be.”

My gaze narrows. He’s teasing me. “Then I’ll keep it to myself.”

“No,” he says softly. “Tell me.”

Somewhere in our interactions, he’s lost that constant look of contempt. Still impatient and annoyed with me from time to time, but it’s no longer a visceral hatred. He’s not hostile or watching me distrustfully as one would an enemy. We’re different, but that only makes our conversation deeper. I don’t mind that he challenges me. I wonder when exactly that happened. He’s not what I expected, and part of me finds him interesting. Catalina says that people are like books. Some you want to read and enjoy; some you hate before you’ve even read a word.

Rumi has become a book I want to read.

“Why didn’t the Llacsans in court protest the treatment and arrest of the journalists?” I ask.

His lips part in surprise. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to understand … everything.”

Rumi studies me. “His Majesty can make any decision he wants. It’s his prerogative. Besides, they acted against the throne. It’s treason. If His Radiance didn’t check every offense, there’d be chaos and dissension.”

I smother the spark of annoyance rising within me. His reply comes out like polished marble. Not one scratch, and too smooth. Is he really so besotted with his king that he can’t see clearly? Especially after the Llacsans’ torture?

Of course not. He’s up to something.

“But he represents all of you,” I say. “Llacsans. I would—”

“Technically speaking, His Majesty represents everyone in Inkasisa. Not just the Llacsan half.” He frowns. “More than half, actually. If you count all of the different tribes in the Lowlands.”

“Who aren’t technically Llacsan,” I point out.

“But native to Inkasisa,” he challenges. “Peoples born and bred out of this land. Unlike you.”

“I was born here.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But instead of coming to learn and live with the natives, you worked against us. Taking over and changing everything.”

Irritation shoots through me. “It was a long time ago—”

“You belong to the new Inkasisa,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “A way of life we were never invited to share. A way of life that damaged us. One where we were forced to work beneath you, rather than alongside. Your queen created misery but had the nerve to call it peace. The king wants to take things back to the way they were—before the Illustrian plague.”

I shift on the bench, angling away from him. A peculiar feeling of guilt washes over me. One that I try to quash. The treatment of the Llacsans disturbs me, but it isn’t as if my life has been easy either. Because of them, the revolt, the king’s earthquake, I lost my parents.

“What is it?” Rumi asks. “Let’s have it out. Whatever you’re thinking, I want to know. Otherwise …”

“Otherwise what?”

He shakes his head slightly, as if physically clearing his thoughts. “What I said obviously distressed you.”

“Of course it does. I’m not a monster,” I say. “It’s just … Sometimes I feel as if you’re trying to tell me my life is easy. And it’s not. After the revolt, I had no one for months. I lived under a doorway. Poor and hungry.”

“I’ve never assumed your life was easy, Condesa. What I’m saying is that it’s been easier than mine. What was your life like before the revolt? Did you have a roof over your head? Did you ever go hungry? Were you allowed to go to the public school?”

I squirm. “Sí.”

“Yes, what?” he presses.

“Yes, I had a home,” I mutter. “I could go to school.”