I grab the pot from her hands. “I’ll apply the salve while you shake out my dress and undo the bodice.” The stuff inside is thick and brown, with the consistency of something between wax and date jelly.
Ximena squeezes my shoulder and grabs my gown from the floor where Mara dropped it.
I crouch beside Mara and dip two fingers in the pot.
“It’s not right, Elisa,” Mara protests. “You’re my queen. You shouldn’t—”
“Oh, shut up. Should I avoid the tear itself?”
“No. It’s also a disinfectant. It will sting, but . . . I’ll be fine if you want to wait—”
I hush her by touching a blob of the stuff directly to the tear. She hisses.
Her skin feels strange beneath my fingertips, so lumpy and stiff, hardly like skin at all. But it’s as warm as normal flesh and bleeds just as easily. Gently I massage the salve along the edges of the wound, pretending not to notice when it mixes with seeping blood. I refuse to let myself feel revulsion, all the while thinking, Mara is this way because of me. She did it for me.
Mara makes no sound, but her head falls back against the wall as she squeezes her eyes closed.
“Your gown is ready,” Ximena says.
I give Mara’s arm a squeeze, then rinse my hands. Ximena dresses me with quick efficiency and then directs me to the edge of my bed. I’m not quite healed enough to bend over and reach my feet, so Ximena slides my stockings on. While she works, I pull out the pin holding up my braids and unravel my hair.
Thinking of Mara sitting alone on the floor of the atrium, I say, “The mayordomo is right, isn’t he? I need more than two attendants.”
“Serving you is an easy privilege, my sky. But once in a while, when we must hurry or when something goes a little wrong, like today, then yes, it would be nice to have one more person. Maybe two.” She slips on a pair of soft leather slippers.
My world is already so crowded with guards and constant visitors. It’s been nice to have a smidge of privacy in the atrium with only my two ladies, who are dear friends besides. I cannot imagine adding a stranger to the mix. But as Ximena sweeps up a layer of my hair and pins it with a mother-of-pearl comb, I say, “I’ll speak to the mayordomo about it soon.”
She plants a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll do what is best.” She helps me to my feet.
“Will you stay here with Mara?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine without me.”
I open my mouth to snap that it’s a command, not a question. But at the last moment, I decide on a softer tack. “It will bring me comfort to know you are with her.” And I turn away, signaling the guards to accompany me.
We step into the corridor, and they center me in a tight formation of creaking leather and swinging swords.
Lord Hector hurries up as we round the first corner. The guards shift formation so he can walk beside me. “I just heard about the delegation,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Healthy and hearty and eager to see old friends.” We descend a wide stairway, and I gladly take his offered arm.
“It’s strange to think of Cosmé as queen,” he says. “I still picture her in her maid’s cap.”
Thinking of my friend brings an easy smile. “And I still see her in leather boots and a desert cloak, tending to the wounded and teaching the little ones to use their slings.”
“She has always been exceedingly capable,” he says.
“Indeed.” Many times I have wished I were half so capable as Cosmé.
When we reach the dignitaries’ suite, my guards clear a path so I can knock on the door myself. An older boy answers, and I don’t recognize him until his face lights up upon seeing me. “It’s Queen Elisa,” he hollers over his shoulder.
I clasp his upper arm. “You’ve grown tall, Matteo.”
His eyes are wide as he steps aside, and we have passed beyond him when he adds hurriedly, “I’ll be fourteen next month!”
The suite is about the size of my own, with two large beds instead of one. The bathing area is partly blocked by a velvet curtain, but I see the edge of a garderobe and a large wooden tub with carrying handles.
A familiar voice says, “Hello, Elisa,” as a figure pushes the curtain aside.
My breath catches as I look into the grinning face of Father Alentín, the one-armed rebel priest who became my mentor in the desert. He wears a traditional rough-woven tunic and robe, and as usual, his empty sleeve is tucked in at the shoulder.
Alentín wraps me in a hug. “Oh, my dear girl,” he says. “It has been too long.” He embraces me with such easy spontaneity, as if I’m merely a girl instead of a queen, and I melt into it.