As Hector considers, our procession shifts to the right to allow the steady stream of oncoming traffic—a few dusty riders, both on camelback and horseback, one small merchant caravan. They view the queen’s carriage with wide eyes and keep their distance. Up ahead, Mara swings out of the servants’ carriage to walk beside it. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be ensconced with Storm for any length of time either.
“Yes, there is such a place,” Hector says at last.
“As your queen, I command you to tell me about it.” I want to whip off my maid’s cap, to expose my head to the sun and sky, but I don’t dare. Everyone in our group knows who I am—their participation in the plan is crucial— but the highway is too busy this close to the city.
“Well, since you command it,” Hector says wryly, “I’ll tell you about Ventierra, my father’s countship.”
For some reason, I’m feeling the need to tease. “Oh? Surely that tiny patch of dirt is nothing compared to this.” I gesture toward the dunes.
He takes it in stride. “‘That tiny patch of dirt’ is made up of rolling hills, bright green during the rainy season, golden when dry. The grass is like an ocean, so long that it ripples on a windy day. From a distance, it shimmers like velvet.” His eyes grow distant as he speaks, and the planes of his face soften. “Waves crash against the coastal cliffs, spewing geysers of white water into the air. Near the mouth of the river are tide pools—I spent hours and hours playing there as a boy. But nothing is more beautiful than a vineyard ready for harvest. Rows and rows of grapevines, dripping with frosty purple . . .”
“Ah,” I say. “That painting in your quarters.”
“Yes. I used to steal grapes off the vine when my father wasn’t looking. I felt sorry for them, getting beaten and pressed, rotting into something that smelled bad. It seemed to me that grapes would rather be grapes than wine.”
I laugh.
“What did I say?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”
Our gazes lock. The rest of the world drops away, and all I can think is, God, I love his smile. It melts the last few years off of his face, and I see the boy underneath, the one who scampered among tide pools and rescued helpless grapes. What happened to that boy? Alejandro, I suppose. And war. And me.
I say, “I’d like to see Ventierra someday.”
His smile fades. “I would too.”
“You miss it, then?”
He just shrugs.
I stare at his profile, which has gone flinty. It’s his way, when he’s trying not to feel too much.
“I didn’t realize you were so homesick.”
He whips his head around. “I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I like my home in Brisadulce too.”
“I’m glad.”
Up ahead, the curtains of the queen’s carriage part, and Ximena peeks out. I smile and wink. She starts to smile back, but then she sees Hector beside me and her smile fades. The curtain swishes back into place. I frown at the spot her head just vacated, wondering what she is thinking.
As evening burnishes the sand to copper, we bypass a busy way station of scattered adobe huts and palm-roofed stables in favor of making camp alone, well off the road and in the sand.
I peer into the queen’s carriage for my pack and tent. Ximena sits beside decoy Elisa, looking stiff and out of sorts. The girl herself has wilted beneath her veil and crown, and pools of sweat collect under her arms. I wince in sympathy. “I don’t think the crown is still necessary,” I tell her. “Or the veil. This far from the road, why don’t you open the curtains and cool off?” She and Ximena will sleep in the carriage, presenting a tempting target for any would-be assassin.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says in a shy voice. I haven’t bothered to learn her name. I don’t want her to become too real to me.
I spot my pack and tent beneath the bench and grab them. I call out to Hector, “Where do you want me to set up?”
He gestures toward a flat spot, saying, “We’ll make a perimeter around you.”
I flip open the tent roll, pull out the poles, and get to work. My fingers fly with motion memory, and I revel in the feel of it, the crunch of sand as I bear down with my poles, the sound of fabric flapping in the wind. I leave the entrance open, tied up at the side with loops for that purpose. I rummage through my pack for flint and steel, then toss the rest of the pack inside my tent. Time to get a cook fire started, if Mara hasn’t already.
A shape looms before me, and I nearly drop my flint and steel.