“Well, they seem to be familiar,” Hector says. “They’re easy with each other.”
His words check me. Hector is right. Mara chatters, and Belén laughs in response. Then the two glide behind a wall of dancers, obscuring my view.
“They are very old friends,” I tell him. I suppose that if Mara can forgive Belén so thoroughly, maybe I can too.
I catch a movement in the corner of my eye and turn to see Lord Liano bearing down on me, his purposed stride a stark contrast to his vacuous gaze. Again I look around for Tristán, hoping he can save me from another disastrous turn with Liano, but he is nowhere to be found. “Oh, God,” I mutter.
“What is it?” Hector asks.
“Please walk with me. I need some air. The gardens, maybe?”
Chapter 16
HECTOR offers an arm, and I accept gratefully. We turn at the same moment Lord Liano calls out, “Your Majesty!”
“Keep walking,” I say under my breath.
Hector snickers. “I take it your first dance together did not go well?”
“I learned that the best place to spear a javelina is in the throat, just above its chest.”
“Aahh. Well, if you ever find yourself needing to ignore him, ask him about the time he stumbled upon a mother puma in her den. He’s good for half an hour, uninterrupted.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
The double doors to the gardens stand open for fresh air. As we step into the night, onto the winding paver path, I breathe deep of the sweet scent of yellow night bloomers. They are like a weed, the way they twine around trellises and ferns. Unchecked, they’d choke everything around them. But we tolerate them, cultivate them even, because at night they spread their weblike petals wide, proudly showing off stamens that glow brighter than fireflies.
“Hector, would you mind . . . that is, do you think it’s safe for me to walk alone for a bit?”
“I think so, yes,” he says with obvious reluctance. “It’s an interior garden, and I have guards stationed around its perimeter. It’s also best for propriety’s sake that I stand guard where everyone can see me. But promise you’ll remain within yelling range?”
“Of course.”
He squeezes my arm and lets me go. And as I meander through the garden of tiny stars, I feel heady—from my glass of wine, from the cool breeze on my skin, from the touch and scent of the man I just left behind. A fountain tinkles nearby. Dimmed laughter and music curl around me.
The palm beside me rustles unnaturally. I hear hurried whispers, heavy breathing.
Surely there is no danger. Everyone was searched for weapons, and guards watch every entrance. But my mouth is dry and a slight tremor sets my fingers twitching as I check my Godstone for telltale cold. Nothing.
I reach out, and with the tip of my finger I move the palm fronds aside.
A man stands in a cavern of star-pricked foliage, his back to me. He is locked in a passionate embrace with someone else, someone smaller whose delicate arms ring his neck.
I can’t help the giggle that bubbles from my mouth.
They whirl at the sound, and their faces are pale and stark among the dark greenery. I gasp with recognition.
It’s Conde Tristán. Encircled in his arms is the herald, Iladro.
They stare at me, horrified. I want more than anything to run away, but shock freezes my feet.
The conde’s features soften into resignation. Without breaking my gaze, he says, “Iladro, dear, why don’t you go calm your stomach with a glass of water?”
The herald disengages himself, manages a panicked half bow in my direction, and flees toward the audience hall.
We are silent for what seems like an eternity. Finally Conde Tristán says, “Your Majesty, I swear on the Scriptura Sancta that everything I have told you is true.”
Indignation helps me find my voice. “That I am stunningly beautiful? That you intend to court me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you even like women?”
“Not in that way, no. But one doesn’t have to be a lover of women to understand your quality.”
I’m shaking my head. “Everything you said is a lie. Maybe not the words themselves, but your intent has been to deceive me.” And deceive me he has. I’m so naive.
The conde lowers his head, whispering, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Truly.” He sighs hugely. “Iladro is the love of my life. But Conde Eduardo has been gradually annexing my land, and my countship is in desperate need—”
“I suggest you retire for the evening.”
The conde starts to protest but changes his mind. He nods instead. Then he slips out of the grotto and disappears.
Suddenly I’m not just alone but lonely. I stand there a long time, swallowing against tears, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering humiliation in my breast. I don’t blame Tristán for wanting to help his people during hard times. But it does sting to know that a man can’t find me desirable. Maybe no one will. Maybe not ever.