Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(52)

The sentry yawns again and I smile into the night. A palm frond tickles my cheek. Frogs croak their eerie song. In seconds the guard slumps to the ground.

I pull the door open and peek inside. Darkness shrouds the entry room. I bend over and then hook my hands through the guard’s underarms and haul him inside before his snores draw the attention of other patrolling guards. It isn’t easy, and even harder to do without cursing myself into a frenzy, but I manage the task, sweating the whole time.

Once inside, I wait for my eyes to adjust and at last catch sight of a dim archway. I take cautious steps toward it. My breath comes out in huffs—it’s sweltering inside this circular room. I steadily climb each step. There are cracks in the stone, and rays of moonlight shimmer inside the tower like shafts of mercury.

When I reach the top, there’s a single wooden door with a heavy cast-iron lock waiting for me. My breath catches as I palm the handle of my sword. What if the Estrella is hidden inside? I know, I know, that it won’t be this easy, but my heart flutters as if it were a bird rustling within a cage, yearning for freedom.

But first, the lock. I dip my hand into my tunic pocket, pull out the three woolen ants, and place them onto the lock. “Do your worst.”

They scramble into the hole and the lock falls to the stone floor with a heavy, ricocheting clang. I collect my bugs, stuff them back into my pocket, and push the door. It swings open, creaking loudly from the rusty hinges. I step inside, blinking in the dim room, and I’m brought up short by a sputtering candle propped on a three-legged stool that looks precariously off-balance.

Someone has sealed shut all the windows with heavy wooden planks. There’s a narrow bed, a small dining table, a couch, and a writing table. A basket of multicolored alpaca wool sits at the foot of a large loom.

What is this?

A sound comes from behind me and something heavy hits the back of my head. I drop to my knees, my vision swimming. I can’t stop myself from falling forward.

The world blinks to black.



When I wake, the first thing I feel is the cold stone under my shoulder blades. Then it’s a dusty pillow that props my head off the floor. I sneeze. My mask is lying next to my fingertips. I blink, my gaze fuzzy, when a scorch of heat burns my arm. I wince and reach for the spot.

“Oh, damn it,” someone says. “Sorry, so sorry. Now I’ve gone and dripped wax on you. I’ve already knocked you unconscious too. Lo siento.”

My vision crystalizes. There’s a girl hovering over me, long hair framing her face. She’s frowning and poking me with her bare foot.

“Will you make it?” she demands. “Please don’t make me scream for help. Talking to my brother is the worst, and I’d rather not if it can be helped. Why don’t you try sitting up?”

“Stop doing that,” I say, wriggling away from her when she tries to poke me again. I do sit up, feeling the back of my head and finding a bump the size of a small lima near my left ear. “What did you hit me with?”

She holds up a massive tome with hundreds of pages squeezed between the covers. “My brother’s biography. It’s practically a murder weapon.”

My gaze narrows as I try to read the title. There’s a painting of Atoc on the cover, but it looks nothing like him—it hardly does the size of his nostrils justice.

Then it hits me. I scramble to my feet. “You’re his sister!”

“Of course.” She chucks the book onto the cot and turns to face me, hands on her hips. “You must be my future sister-in-law. I’m terribly sorry for your bad luck.”

I let out a startled laugh. “How do you know I’m the condesa?”

She merely shrugs, but there’s a mischievous glint in her honey-colored eyes. The look sends a ripple of panic through me. What else does she know about me? I take a step forward, reaching for my sword, but I come up empty.

“I’ve hidden it.”

I scowl at her. “How do you know who I am?”

She smiles, and I remain scowling as we examine each other. Princesa Tamaya doesn’t resemble her brother. Which is to say that she’s very beautiful. Glossy black hair, high cheekbones, and dark slanting eyebrows. My age, but more sophisticated and refined. She wears her threadbare cotton wrap as if it’s the finest gown in all of Inkasisa. No wonder Rumi is in love with her.

I feel unaccountably murderous.

“Bienvenido a mi hogar,” she says, sweeping her arms wide.

I’m forced to look at the room in a new light. It’s dreary and dark, and utterly wrong for her. I don’t know her at all, but anyone can see she thrives around people. Yet she’s locked away from all the world. The princesa of Inkasisa. Why would Atoc keep her trapped up here?

She eyes me shrewdly. “Dismal, isn’t it?”

“Regrettable.”

“I don’t have much in terms of refreshment,” she says. “As you can see, I’m sometimes forgotten up here.”

The only thing on the table—aside from the one candle—is a half-eaten bowl of cold, unflavored quinoa. I’d be bitter about that too. “You don’t get any visitors? Not even your brother?”

Her words are said with a hint of bitterness. “Especially not him.”

“Why are you locked up?” I ask. This is Atoc’s sister.

She motions for me to have a seat.