Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(6)

“Are you sure?” I ask. A million things could go wrong. We’ve never let a Llacsan across the bridge. What if it’s a trap?

“I want to hear that message.” Catalina raises her eyebrow at Sofía. “Better to know what Atoc wants, right?”

Sofía nods. “There’s more of us than there are of them. I think it’s what my mother would do.”

Catalina’s expression clears at the mention of Ana. “See to it, then.”

Sofía leaves at a full tilt and without a backward glance.

The idea of talking to the Llacsans twists my stomach. If the roles were reversed, Atoc would turn us away at the castillo gates. Or worse. Many Illustrian spies have perished in his dungeons. Death by hunger, loneliness, and darkness. No message is worth the risk of bringing them across.

But the condesa ordered it.

“Pick out what you want me to wear,” I say. “Nothing too frilly.”

“I wish I could meet with the messenger.”

I consider pricking the condesa with one of her hairpins. “And unravel years of careful planning? I’m your decoy.”

As soon as the words are out in the open, a flicker of unease sweeps over me. It is dangerous. That’s true for her, but also true for me.

Catalina folds her arms across her chest. Deep down she knows every precaution matters. When the Llacsans overran La Ciudad, the usurper ordered a search for the last Illustrian royal that stretched the whole of Inkasisa. But by then Ana—captain of the Queen’s Guard—had locked Catalina inside the fortress, hidden from prying eyes, Llacsan and Illustrian alike. Back then, Ana didn’t trust anyone. We were all too desperate.

Anger courses through my veins. Atoc murdered Catalina’s aunt—the Illustrian queen—along with my parents, by creating a powerful earthquake that destroyed the Illustrian neighborhoods of La Ciudad. Then he’d used the Estrella to summon ghosts who’d gone on a rampage. Illustrians died by the thousands, screaming, begging, helpless. The horror of the massacre hasn’t dulled with time.

I want the condesa on the throne. I’ll do anything to make it happen—fight, steal, lie, or kill. I’m not above it. Not if it ensures Catalina’s future. Not if it brings me that much closer to the life I want, which involves something far different from pretending to be the condesa and swinging around my blade during training. I want to weave tapestries, learn how to cook, and explore Inkasisa.

Only Atoc stands in the way.

Catalina studies me, her head slightly tilted. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look … feral. What is it?”

I shake my head. I need to focus on today. On protecting our future queen.

Her dark eyes flick to mine. We’ve never talked about the cost of switching places, because I’m afraid of what would come out of my mouth. Does she know the anger I keep trapped inside?

“Wear the white skirt and woven belt.” She sighs.

“I promise to tell you everything,” I say. “Every word, every detail. But I need you to stay out of the way. You can go over your notes on the constellations. Perfect your craft—”

“Funny thing about my craft,” she says sarcastically. “I sort of need it to be nighttime.”

I search for something else. “Then think about ways to lure El Lobo to the keep?”

Catalina’s eyes light up, and I sneer. Even she falls for that overhyped act. If the masked vigilante is on our side, why haven’t we received a visit from him? For all I know, he’s merely having a laugh at the king’s expense. That’s very different from the revolution we’re planning. The revolution I’ve trained for every day of my life.

I change out of my trousers and knee-length tunic and pull on Illustrian-white garments. Catalina clasps a silver beaded necklace around my neck. I wrap the leather laces of the only sandals I own tight around my ankles.

The condesa turns me around so I face a chipped full-length mirror. She narrowly gazes at my reflection, the corners of her mouth turned down. I examine what she sees: unruly wavy hair, face clean of any makeup, shoulders slightly hunched. I try to imagine what I’d look like if I wore the simple clothing Catalina usually wears as Andrea, helpmate to Condesa. The person I might be if I weren’t her decoy. Whoever that is.

I quickly wind my hair into a knot on top of my head, pinch my cheeks, and turn to face her. “This is the best it’s going to get.”

“You’re not going to brush out the knots?”

She says it like I’m suggesting I greet Atoc’s messenger naked. “It’s already up.”

I grab my sword propped against the dresser. It’s not that I don’t care about my looks—it’s that I feel ridiculous dressing up. Maybe one day I’ll be able to put on a skirt without trying to be somebody else. Maybe one day I’ll look like myself.

I move toward the window to check on the progress of the messenger. The faded curtains whip in the breeze, and a smattering of rain sprinkles my face. The usual pull in my belly flares as I lean out of the window. We’re three stories high and I feel every one of them.

I shield my eyes from the drizzle. The messenger rides a dapple-gray mare, flanked by twelve guards. I grip the handle of my sword, the weight a comfort in my palm. The group gallops confidently toward our fortress, an arrogant set to their shoulders, as if they own the land and the people on it.