Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(71)

I will betray him.

“Why?” His voice is a whisper.

I search for a reason. Any of the hundred I have will do. “I might recognize you.”

He laughs. “Have you been kissing people?”

“No,” I admit. “But it could happen.”

Both hands drop to his sides. “Interesting. With who?”

This time I chuckle. The idea is laughable, and for a second I wonder if he’s jealous. I’ve never made anyone jealous. It’s a heady feeling and I’m suddenly out of my depth. Distracted from what I’m supposed to do. “That’s not something you should be thinking about, Lobo. All you have to worry about is convincing me your plan is better than mine.”

“I think I know a way to do that,” he says in a brisk tone. All traces of warmth and laughter gone. “I’ll come for you in three days. Get some rest, Condesa. You have dark circles under your eyes.”

I gasp. Not because I don’t think it’s true, but because he has the gall to point it out. His mask ripples again, another smile. He slinks onto the balcony and jumps over the railing, as if three stories high is nothing but a single step between him and the ground. I walk onto the balcony and peer down. He’s nowhere in sight.

Dawn approaches, the first victorious rays of sunlight streaking against the conquered night. I stare in the direction of the Illustrian keep. Catalina will still be sleeping this early in the day. With the wedding only days away, she’s anticipating me to send her another message.

And I’m no closer to figuring out what I’m going to do.





CAPíTULO





More wool arrives with breakfast the next morning. It’s rough to the touch and has a hideous, stuffy smell, almost unusable. No doubt Atoc’s doing after my failure yesterday. I sit in the same chair El Lobo occupied only hours earlier, and eye the yellow and ocher strands miserably. The Estrella’s location weighs heavily on my heart.

“Not up to weaving today?” Suyana asks. “His attendant told me the king was greatly pleased by his wedding gift. Why don’t you weave him something heavier? For winter, perhaps?”

“He says not to interrupt him anymore,” I say, because I have to say something. I could care less about Atoc and his demands.

I have the location of the Estrella—thanks to the magically talented Princesa Tamaya. The wedding is days away. I could start a tapestry tonight, send by pygmy-owl—or whatever bird tickles my fancy—and Catalina could have everything she needs this very night. I’d be handing her the throne on a platter, trussed up like a heavily seasoned duck.

But weaving the message feels too final. It means a win for the Illustrians. It means Catalina on the throne. It means robbing the Llacsans of their voice. I’d be responsible.

My next exhale is long and unsteady. Suyana says something again, but her words sound warbled, as if she was trying to talk from underwater. “What was that?”

“Huevos y chorizo with locoto,” Suyana repeats. “That’s what’s for breakfast. Eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” She throws me a look of concern. I ignore it because there’s no way I’m eating anything while my stomach is roiling like hot water in a kettle. “What’s the plan for the day?”

“You have a dress fitting.”

I make a face.

“Be kind to them,” Suyana says quietly. “If His Majesty is displeased, they will lose their jobs.”

She tries to put the breakfast tray on my lap, but I shift away. “Te comprendo.”

“I don’t think you’ll be mean,” she says, placing the food on the dresser. “I just thought it needed to be said.”

“Because I’m an Illustrian?”

She frowns. “Because you’re going to be his wife.”

I have to force myself from shuddering. I finish with breakfast and hand her the tray. “I’ll drown them with compliments.”

Suyana smiles and takes the tray.



Three seamstresses prod me into a short-sleeved red-and-white dress. Patterns of golden thread are stitched onto the thick belt. The full, ruffled skirt swishes around my ankles as I shift on my feet. Something in my pocket moves.

While the women busy themselves with cutting more fabric, I glance inside and almost cry out in surprise. My stupid lizard has snuck into my pocket. It would have been funny if there weren’t three Llacsans hovering close by. I frown at the creature, urging him to be silent.

“Condesa, step over here,” says one of the seamstresses.

I carefully climb onto the step that sits in front of a full-length mirror. I stare at the girl in the reflection. She’s thinner than I remember, with pronounced cheekbones and collarbones, dark smudges under her eyes. The dress cinches at the waist. Catalina would approve.

I look unhappy, this side of gaunt, and no amount of pretty fabric can hide the panic curling around my edges like wisps of fog hovering over Lago Yaku. I don’t recognize myself. Even my hands are soft from the lack of training. The muscles I’d worked so hard to sculpt. The mirror shows the person I resemble the most, and it’s not me.

I look like Catalina.

Disappointment sucks me down into a quicksand of self-loathing. I’m only a copy of someone else. Just a decoy. I’m not really her. I’m not me. I don’t know who I am or where I belong, if anywhere at all.