Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(75)

“You mean that you can heal people without all this?” I gesture to the general room. When he doesn’t say anything, I take that as an affirmative. “Pretty useful on the battlefield.”

“It takes too much out of me,” he says. “Hence all this.”

“Right, right.” I take a deep breath. My thoughts are crammed with wanting to know what exactly he’d felt earlier. “So, we should talk about it.”

He straightens. “It?”

“Your confusion.”

His face flushes a deep, deep red. The silence stretches. I want to push him into an explanation, because I’m feeling just as uneasy, as if I’m about to walk across the Illustrian bridge all over again. Specific details stay with me long after I’ve seen him: the way his hair just grazes his broad shoulders, the deep corners that bracket his mouth when he’s trying to hold back a smile, the freckles dotting his nose.

I shouldn’t like him at all, but I do. I can’t make sense of it. The feelings are new and uncomfortable and alarming. But most of all, I hate one detail that looms larger than the others: He’s utterly decent. The kind of person I could respect and admire.

“Well?” I prod.

But the moment is gone. Rumi’s expression is carefully blank, like a fresh sheet of paper, and he’s leaning far away from me; any farther, and he’ll fall off his stool. He glances at the clock. “I have to see patients. The infirmary is officially open for the afternoon.”

I swallow my disappointment. It’s just as well. Nothing good could come of having that conversation. We both know it, and I was foolish to push him toward an open flame, one that could burn us both.

A guard shows up to escort me back to my room. As I leave, I pass two Llacsans waiting to see the healer. One grips his shoulder, wincing in pain. The other—a court member, judging by his fine cape and boots—leans against the wall, his head tilted back, attempting to slow the dribble of blood coming out of his nose.



That night, after Suyana has come and gone with the dinner tray, I take a seat on the stool in front of the loom and consider my dilemma. I am duty bound to write my message to Catalina. Duty bound to tell her the location of the Estrella.

I sigh and take up the threads. Silver light winks and glitters as the moonlight turns supple in my hands, bending and twisting. I weave the message into a striped owl. Once Catalina receives this, she’ll know exactly where to send her fighters to collect the Estrella.

As soon as I finish, the bird springs to life, stretching its full wings. It bounds off the tapestry and settles on my shoulder. All I have to do is open the balcony doors. But I told El Lobo that I’d hear his plan, and a bloodless revolt profoundly appeals to me. I don’t like war, don’t like the killing and the ripping apart of families and friends. If Princesa Tamaya and the vigilante can circumnavigate a battle, then wouldn’t that help everyone? Taking down Atoc without lives lost seems like the best option for both sides.

And I can’t help but feel they have a point in wanting to destroy the Estrella. It’s only brought destruction and death. Maybe they’re right: Maybe no one should have access to that kind of power.

What would Catalina do if our positions were reversed? She’s softer and kinder than me. If I could understand—and potentially support—the other side, why couldn’t she?

I need to speak with her. Because of Rumi, I have the perfect opportunity.

The balcony doors remain shut, and the bird seems disappointed, but I take up more threads and start a new tapestry. In a couple of hours, a new owl stares back at me, the words MEET IN EL MERCADO. ELEVENTH BELL woven across his wings. She’ll know the place. It’s the one we talked about over and over again back at the keep—the first place we dreamed of visiting after we’d won the war against the Llacsans.

The salte?eria.

Guilt nags me. Sneaking into La Ciudad will put her in danger, but the risk is worth it. I can only hope that after talking to both Catalina and El Lobo, I’ll know what to do.

And whose side I’ll be on.





CAPíTULO





When the tenth bell tolls, I’m dressed and ready for our visit into La Ciudad. Suyana outfitted me in a soft yellow dress and a shawl stitched with mint-green flowers along its fringed hem. I’m reading the book Rumi lent me, my nerves alive and fluttering like a swarm of delicate butterflies. I can’t wait to see Catalina, even if I’m dreading our conversation. There’s a chance she’ll understand where I’m coming from. Maybe she’s even seen something in the stars that will support my argument. Maybe Luna is as sick of war as I am.

The door opens—but it’s not the healer. Juan Carlos strides in halfway to eleventh bell. He has a broad smile on his face. “Salte?a time!”

I look over his shoulder, but there’s no one else. “You’re taking me?”

“Rumi said this was on your schedule today.” He squints at me. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?”

Of course not. I need to go into El Mercado. I wanted—had thought, rather—I’d have a different escort. But our conversation yesterday must have spooked Rumi. Perhaps he wanted to keep his distance because it was the smart thing to do. I should feel the same, and I do on some level. I shake off my disappointment, throwing up the wall that should have been there all along, and focus on the most important thing.