Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(59)

“The pitch in your voice. The past tense.”

He ducks his head. “Right. She died in the revolt.”

“I lost my parents too. In the revolt.” I don’t know what makes me say it. Maybe it’s the earthquakes and how they’ve brought my parents to the forefront of my mind. Maybe it’s because I want a friend. It’s a truth I share with Catalina. She lost her parents too.

Another earthquake rumbles, softer now. Atoc’s magic must be taking its toll. Juan Carlos is staring at me with a glimmer of speculation. “Is that all, Condesa?”

At my nod, he leaves me with my thoughts. So many families were ripped apart that day. Gone in agonizing hours, minutes, days. Another war will shred more families. More children will grow up speaking about their parents in past tense.

I’m tired of it.



I’m not allowed to leave the room for the rest of the day. The castillo stays silent and gloomy until the moon glides into view. Restless energy courses through my veins. The lizard and frog huddle on the chair, gazing forlornly at me. I sense they’re aware of my disquiet.

I fold every stitch of clothing. Make and remake the bed until the sheets are perfectly flat. I’m too agitated to nap. Too irritated to think. I’d give anything for one of my daggers and a target. But somewhere my people are reuniting with their loved ones. That’s something, at least.

The problem of El Lobo weighs heavily.

As darkness descends, my loom beckons. I sit and take a deep breath. My fingers fly across the loom as I weave a jaguar and a condor. What other dangerous creature can I weave? My mouth twists into a grim smile. I’m clearly in some mood. It doesn’t occur to me to be afraid of the creatures. They creep and glide around the room, sniffing and hissing as they explore. They make friends with the other woven animals.

I have quite the menagerie in my room now. Deadly, slithering, and the creepy-crawly. My kind of people. When guards walk too close to my door, they drop to the ground, flat and unblinking, or if they’re close enough, they slide under the bed. The frog returns into its own tapestry, flattening and weaving itself back in place.

When I’m done with the tapestry, I venture out onto the balcony and keep watch for … I don’t know what. Guards come in and out of the castillo gates throughout the early evening. They examine every inch of the garden and the side entrance. I wait for a guard to come for me. Someone must have seen me dressed as El Lobo, fighting Sajra’s men. The priest’s threat hangs ominously over me like a black cloudy night without any stars.

I rest my chin in my palms as I contemplate the guards scrambling below, looking for signs of disturbance. Three of Atoc’s men search the watchtower, and for a moment I wonder if Princesa Tamaya will betray me. I discard the thought. Somehow I know she won’t.

I have to go back to the tower and get her to tell me about the Estrella. Returning tonight would be too risky, but there’s something else I can do. Atoc’s study might have useful information about the princesa and her confinement. Perhaps there’s a record of her actions against the throne, or a list of her possible associates.

At last the castillo falls into a deep sleep. I change into the dark clothing and a new mask fashioned from my leftover scraps, grab my bag of moondust and my sword, and make my escape via the balcony. Once I’m inside the castillo’s main halls, I creep along the corridors, careful to avoid clucking chickens and shattered pots. Dirt lies in piles amid shards of clay. One more hallway to go.

I half run, half tiptoe, until I reach the corner and hide behind a tall leafy plant. I spread its leaves and peer around the edge. Two guards are stationed in front of the king’s study. Maybe thirty feet away. Lit torches offer a dim visual. I’ll have little success in taking the guards by surprise.

I press myself as close to the pot and its abundant leaves as possible and pick up a fragment of pottery off the floor. I steady my breath, but no amount of careful breathing can calm my racing heart. I say a quick prayer to Luna as I throw the pottery down the hall, in the direction I came from.

It makes a resounding crash. Both guards come thundering past my hiding spot. I sprint to the wooden double doors on the balls of my feet and yank on the iron door handle—

It’s locked.

No.

“I’m afraid you’ll need a key,” says a low voice with a distinct accent and gravel pitch from behind me. I jump about a foot and then spin, clutching my chest.

El Lobo.

A sharp breath eases out of me. I point to the keyhole. Plodding footsteps grow louder with every second. The guards are on their way back. The vigilante pulls out an iron key and unlocks the door. We scramble inside just as the guards’ voices become audible.

I softly shut the door, and darkness smothers the room. Last time I brought in a torch, and the guards noticed. El Lobo lets out a husky chuckle. He smells like the outdoors, woodsy with a hint of mint. It’s pleasant and familiar.

“You don’t come prepared for much, do you?”

I bristle and march away from the vigilante, fumbling my way in the dark as my eyes adjust to the dim starlight.

“No candles or matches,” he muses. “No way of getting inside—”

“You have the key,” I say in an undertone.

“Stole the spare,” he says, quieter. “No weapon.”

“I’m armed. I have a sword.”