But my fingers tremble and my script is jerky as I write.
Dearest Alodia,
Hector is the best man I know. You could not do better.
Elisa
I roll it tight and slide it inside Alodia’s canister. I hand the canister to Fernando with instructions to send it immediately.
As he leaves, Ximena says, “Do you need to lie down for a moment? Maybe a glass of wine?”
“I’d like to be alone, Ximena,” I say in the deadliest whisper, and she lowers her head and backs away.
But alone is such a nebulous state when one is queen. Knowing the guards surround me, I pull the canopy closed and cry as softly as I can manage it.
It is near morning when an idea finally dams the flood of tears.
Chapter 17
I scoot off the bed and throw a robe around my shoulders. Ximena is already awake, though her long gray braid is sleep mussed. She sits near the balcony, taking advantage of the morning light to work on a tapestry. She looks up at me. “Is everything all right now?”
“I need to dress quickly. No time for a bath.”
“We need to wash your face. With luck, people will think you had too much to drink and will not guess you spent the night crying.”
At least she doesn’t ask me why. “Fine. Is Mara awake yet?”
“She didn’t get back until very late.” She gathers the material in her lap and plops it into a basket near her chair.
“Let her sleep a few more minutes, but we’ll have to wake her soon.”
“Are you going to tell me—”
“Soon.” I don’t even want my own Royal Guard to know what will transpire next. My idea hinges on secrecy.
I send a guard to fetch the mayorodomo while Ximena begins sifting through my wardrobe. She holds up a riding gown; it has a split skirt and a tight black vest. I never ride, but I sometimes wear it when I need to feel strong.
I nod approval. Ximena has read my mood well.
I have just finished dressing, and Ximena is combing my hair in the atrium, when the mayordomo arrives. His dressing robe hangs crooked, and the left side of his head is sleep plastered into a solid wall of hair.
“Your Majesty?” he says, out of breath. “The guard said your summons was urgent.”
“Thank you for coming so quickly. Tell me, is Conde Tristán of Selvarica still here in the palace?” Ximena’s face in the vanity mirror shows perfect composure, but I sense increasing tension in her brushstrokes.
“He filed a departure notice very late last night.” He shakes his head with disgust. “Who departs during Deliverance week? And on the night of the gala! It was most untoward, and I—”
“But Tristán is still here? He hasn’t left yet?” I realize I’m wringing my skirt in my right fist. I release it and flex my fingers.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out. Now. If he hasn’t yet departed, tell him I require his presence immediately in my chambers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He executes a quick bow and hurries away on slippered feet.
Ximena puts her hands on my shoulders and makes eye contact with me in the mirror.
“I’ll explain soon,” I whisper. I just hope the conde has not had time to gather his entourage and flee from last night’s encounter.
Fortunately, I do not wait long.
When a guard escorts the conde into the atrium, Tristán drops to one knee and bows his head, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Rise.”
He does, and I note his traveling clothes: leather breeches, a loose blouse, a utility belt.
“Going somewhere so soon?”
He focuses on a point just above my head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I thought it prudent.”
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye.”
He looks sharply at me, really looks, not bothering to hide his confused suspicion.
I press on. “I had thought . . . or maybe just hoped that we had found a sort of connection, you and I.”
“Your Majesty, I . . . I’m sorry, but I thought . . . last night . . .”
“Your Grace.” I stand from my stool and offer him my arm. “Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.” To Ximena, I say, “Wake Mara. I need that room.”
She hurries away. The conde and I follow at a slower pace.
When we enter the austere attendant’s room, Mara is sitting up in bed, rubbing bleary eyes. She and Ximena start to leave, but I hold up a hand. “Stay.” I close the door behind me.
“Keep your voices low,” I say. “My Royal Guard listens close for danger, and I do not care for them to know about this.”
“About what, Your Majesty?” the conde says wearily, looking at the floor. “Why am I here? If you’re going to punish me, or exact some kind of revenge, please get it over with.”