Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(74)

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Sorry.”

Rumi rolls his eyes and uses his shoulder to open the door to the infirmary. The first thing I notice is the smell. All manner of vegetation grows inside the room. Pots of basil and rosemary line the table next to clay bowls piled high with garlic cloves. Hanging from the stone ceiling are dried bundles of lavender and thyme.

The room smells a lot like Rumi’s clothes. Well, a rotting version of them.

Afternoon sunlight streams in from the large rectangular windows, casting patterns on the floor. There are several empty cots in one corner, folded blankets neatly stacked on each. I recognize the intricate detailing in the geometric patterns and the depictions of parrots. Tamaya’s work.

“It smells like you,” I say.

An amused huff escapes his chest. “Thank you?”

I settle onto a wooden stool. It wobbles under my weight. Smoothing my long striped skirt, I study the rest of the hospital wing. Drawings of various herbs and plants hang on all four walls. One catches my eye—a tiny sketch, and though it doesn’t shine like the other drawings, it’s still the same flower as the one in the diagram hanging in Sajra’s den.

“What’s that flower?”

Rumi looks over his shoulder. “Killasisa. It’s a legendary flower people have searched for throughout the years.”

I’m about to ask him more, but he pulls out a clear bottle from one of the lower drawers. Vinegar. My stomach roils. He sees the expression on my face and a small smile creeps onto his mouth. “I know,” he says. “But I have to clean it. If I don’t, you’ll get an infection. Then I’ll have to cut your arm off.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Am I?”

“Try not to enjoy this so much.”

His smile grows wider. “It’s too late for that, Condesa.”

Rumi pours the vinegar on a clean white cloth and presses the dampened corner directly onto my wound. I clench my eyes and hiss out several curses.

“Do you want to visit El Mercado and have salte?as tomorrow?”

I blink. “What? With you?”

“Would you rather go with the king?” At my recoil, he sobers. “Sorry. Terrible thing to say. I think you need a break from the castillo. I can take you at eleventh bell.”

His dark eyes are on mine, crinkling at the corners from laughing. Chances to leave the castillo are rare and I’m not going to miss the opportunity—or turn down free salte?as. And I wouldn’t mind his company. As soon as the thought enters my mind, I blush. He notices, and that little line forms between his brows.

“Yes.” I look at my arm. “All right.”

He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and repeats the process.

My eyes spill with tears. “You owe me at least three for this.”

“I’ll be done in just a moment.” He blows softly on the wound. Then he takes the oily liquid right out of a cactus leaf and smears the mixture all over my messy elbow. “It seems like I’m always patching you up.”

I look over his handiwork. The wound is cleaner, the blood wiped away. “You’re a good healer, Rumi.”

His eyes flicker in surprise.

“What?”

“You’ve never called me by my name before.”

His pointing it out makes me flush. Of course he’d notice something like that.

I lift my eyes and our gazes lock.

He’s focused on me, not my damaged elbow. There’s bewilderment in his eyes, a question that I don’t know the answer to. I sit there, unmoving, his hand a gentle weight on my arm. His skin is warm and soft. That line between his brows becomes more pronounced. Then I shift my attention to my elbow, pretending to be absorbed by his skill.

“I feel … confused,” Rumi says softly.

My breath stops at my chest. “Why?”

A long moment passes. He removes his hand from my arm. “Your elbow will be fine. Don’t wipe away the mixture, and keep it from getting wet.”

“Rumi.”

He stands. “Do you want tea?”

I blink. “All right.”

He walks over to the hearth, where a black kettle hangs above the burning wood, and lights a fire. Then he pulls down a variety of herbs hanging from the ceiling. My lizard pokes its head out of my pocket, and I use my index finger to push him down. “Be still,” I mutter.

Rumi turns from the hearth. “Can you handle spicy?”

I give him a look. “Do your worst, healer.”

He smiles and places a steaming mug of tea in front of me. I take a cautious sip. “It’s good,” I say. “What’s in it?”

“It’s my own blend. A little heat from the locoto pepper, honey, pinch of lavender.”

Whenever he speaks about his herbs, Rumi comes to life. It’s like he takes off an ill-fitting coat and the clothes underneath are tailor-made for him. It strikes me how confident he seems to be away from Atoc and the court that laughs at him.

I take another sip. The warmth of the tea spreads all the way to my toes. The sting from my elbow vanishes, and I take a deep, calming breath. “My arm doesn’t hurt. Is this your magic at work?”

“More or less,” he says. “I have a knack at herb lore, but I don’t have to use it.”