The Crown of Embers

He looks down at our entwined hands and mumbles, “And yet I like your stubbornness.”

And abruptly, he releases them. I let them fall to my sides, where they ache coldly.

He says, “Dismiss me.”

“No.”

“I’ve failed to protect you. Someone else should—”

“I don’t want anyone else.” My own words echo in the air around me, hammering me with their truth, and I can’t contain my slight gasp. I don’t want anyone else.

He runs a hand through his hair, looks everywhere but at me. Silence stretches between us.

“I’ve been a fool,” I admit finally. “I’ve been so afraid of seeming weak. Of being like . . . like Alejandro. I’ve made bad decisions. Hector, you are the person I trust most in the world. I would do better to heed your counsel. And from now on, I will. But I promise you . . .” I force a smile. “If I die? You are definitely dismissed.” I hold my breath and await his response. I know the morbid joke will either infuriate him or put him at ease.

After a moment he shakes his head ruefully. He returns my forced smile with his own feeble attempt and says, “In that case, today I will teach you nothing more than the warm-up series practiced by the Royal Guard. In addition to strengthening and stretching your muscles, I think you’ll find it meditative and calming.”

I exhale my relief. “Good. I could use ‘meditative and calming’ right now.”

“Turn around.” From behind, he reaches for my right arm and gently lifts it to shoulder level. “I’ll guide your movements.”

But something in the air has changed. I am too deeply aware of the warmth of his nearness, the scents of mink oil and aloe shaving gel, the touch of his callused but gentle fingers. And I am forced to conclude that doing the slow, dancelike warm-up exercises of the Royal Guard with Hector as my partner is not calming at all.

Chapter 13

That evening, I send Mara to bed early for some healing rest. Ximena helps me don my nightgown, then leaves for a late night of poring over musty documents with Fathers Nicandro and Alentín.

In spite of everything that has happened, in spite of my doubts about God and his will and his words, I still find the Scriptura Sancta to be a soothing balm to the day’s stresses, and I look forward to reading each night by candlelight before sleeping.

But I am too restless tonight. The words blur on the page. After I’ve read the same sentence several times without comprehending, I toss the manuscript onto the quilt and swing my legs over the edge of my bed. I grab the candle and its brass holder from my bedside table and carry it toward the atrium.

In the archway, I say to the guards, “I would like some privacy, please.” They oblige by turning their backs as I enter.

The water in my ever-circulating bathing pool shimmers blue, and I don’t have to look up at the skylight to know that the moon is full or near to it. As I approach with my candle, shards of reflected flame-light dance on the surface.

I set the candle on the tiled edge of the pool.

Before me is my vanity mirror—and my own reflection. I wear a silk nightgown of pale lavender edged in delicate lace. The looseness of the gown drapes pleasantly, flatteringly, and my thick sleeping braid snakes around one shoulder almost to my waist. My skin glows in the candlelight. I feel almost beautiful.

I light the oil lamp on my vanity so I can see better.

The outline of my Godstone is sharp against the thin material. I slip the nightgown’s straps from my shoulders and let it fall to the ground.

I study my n**ed reflection, curious. I try to see myself through someone else’s eyes. Would someone else look past the welted red scar, the faceted blue of my Godstone to notice the slight softness in my lower belly? The way my inner thighs just brush when I stand? My legs will never be willowy and elegant like my older sister’s, but they’re straight and strong.

Finally I allow my gaze to drift toward my br**sts. They are the softest part of me, heavy enough that during the day, it is more comfortable to have them bound in a bodice. Unbound, they swoop low and full, enough to balance my h*ps nicely. Staring at them, I become acutely aware of cool air against their dark tips.

Ximena always told me men would notice my br**sts. I’ve never noticed anyone noticing. But maybe I wouldn’t. Mara says I’m pathetically ignorant in matters of love.

Slowly, face flushing, I lift my right hand to cup my left breast. I squeeze gently, and it is a tiny battle to decide what I want to understand most: the feel of a hand on my breast or a breast in my hand.

“Elisa?”

I whirl, hand dropping.

It’s Mara. She stands in the doorway to the attendants’ quarters, her hair mussed, her eyes heavy with sleep.

“I thought I heard something. Are you all right?”

She’s seen me n**ed a hundred times, but I have a vague sensation that I’ve been caught at something shameful. “I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep.”

She regards me a moment as if considering. Then she beckons with one hand. “Why don’t you come sit with me awhile?”

I crouch to grab the puddle of silk at my feet and hurriedly slip my arms through the straps. I stand and follow Mara into her room.

Mindful of her wounded stomach, she lowers herself onto one of the bottom bunks and pats the mattress beside her. “Sit,” she says, as if she were the queen and I the maid.

I sit.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” she says.

“I know.”

A shaft of moonlight edges through the high window and hits the opposite wall above our heads, leaving us in shadow. It is the darkness and her patient silence that give me the courage to ask, “Mara, have you ever had a lover?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Two.”

“Oh.” How can someone so young have had two lovers already? I’m desperate to ask about them, about what it was like, if either of them broke her heart. But I can’t make my mouth say the words.

“I’ll tell you about them, if you like,” she says.

Oh, thank God. “All right. Yes.”

“The first was when I was barely fifteen. He was two years older, a virgin like me. We flirted for a week or two. He was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen. One day I took my father’s sheep to a high canyon to graze. He followed, and I thought it was the most romantic thing in the world. We started kissing, and then we were taking each other’s clothes off, and then I realized that the rocky ground was poking into my back, and it was very cold outside, and the sheep started drifting away. . . . I changed my mind about what we were doing. But I didn’t say anything. I just endured. It was over after a few painful seconds. The next day in the village, he ignored me. We hardly spoke to each other during the next year.”

I stare at her shadowy outline in horror. “That . . . I’m so sorry. It sounds . . . terrifying.”

She shrugs. “It wasn’t so bad. You know, my father was the priest of our village. Very strict. He used to say he could tell when a girl had lost her virginity by the way she walked. And I walked around very carefully for days after, terrified that he would know. But he never did. I was exactly the same person after as I was before. Just, maybe, a little wiser.”

My heart is pounding. “Was it awful afterward?” I ask. “To be ignored like that?”

“Yes. I wish I’d waited, had the courage to say no or push him away. But the awfulness didn’t last. We both met someone else.”

“Oh?”

She takes a deep breath, releases it. “Julio was a little older. Not as handsome, but so much kinder. I used to make a goat-milk scone with pine nuts that I smeared with honeyed apricots. I sold it at market every week. He always bought several, and he always lingered to talk. It was months before he kissed me. Months more before we made love, which by the way was wonderful. We made love a lot. As often as possible. He was going to ask my father for my hand.”

Softly I ask, “What happened to him?” Though I think I know.

“He was killed when Inviernos burned our village. Just before I met you in Father Alentín’s rebel camp.”

I remember. She was so sad at first. Meeting God’s chosen one seemed to bring her comfort. “Oh, Mara.”

“I still miss him. But I also know how lucky I am. I could have been pregnant when he died, for we were careless. My father could have found out and beaten me for it.” She points to the scar above her eyelid. “I have another scar like this one between my shoulder blades. But Julio saw past the scars and found me beautiful.”

Her voice catches a little on the word “beautiful,” so I reach an arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “You are beautiful.”

She laughs. “I know! Even with these awful scars. Julio always said he loved my smile. And my nose! Admit it, my nose is perfect.”

“Your nose is perfect.”

She leans into me. Her soft hair smells of honeysuckle. Her voice trembles a little when she says, “I do worry sometimes, since being burned by the animagi, that maybe I’m too scarred now. And burn scars have a particular awfulness, all ridged and warped and oddly colored. I may never take a lover again. I couldn’t bear for someone I cared about to . . . to be repulsed.”

It’s a feeling I understand well. I used to dread the moment when Alejandro would turn away from me in disgust. But he died before I found the courage—or maybe the desire—to be n**ed before him.

“And I worry that what I shared with Julio is something that only happens once to a person,” Mara says. “Maybe I’ve used up my love luck.” She shrugs.

“I worry about that too.”

She sighs. “I liked Humberto. He was always smiling, always cheerful. I didn’t realize you were lovers until you told me about him.”

“We weren’t.”

“You never . . . ?”

“Never.”

And somehow she understands that by saying “never,” I’m not just talking about Humberto, for she says, “You will. As queen, it’s inevitable. You will marry, and everyone will pressure you to have a child so that there is more than one heir to the throne.”

“You make it sound so calculating.”

“Oh, it often is. But after marrying you could take a lover. Most of the royals do, or so I’ve heard.”

I’m glad the darkness hides my flushed face. “I couldn’t. When I married Alejandro, he had a lover already. It was . . . hurtful. Even though there was no intimacy between us.”

“I see.” And I know she does. I grab her hand and squeeze tight. I could never say it aloud, but I hope she understands how glad I am that she is here with me tonight instead of Ximena.

Her voice turns mischievous. “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe you’ll marry a man who is rich and powerful and wise and wonderful to be n**ed with.”

I can’t help the giggle that bubbles from my mouth.

“Maybe,” she says, “you should ask all your suitors to drop their breeches so you can inspect the merchandise.”

“Mara!”

“You could make it a royal command.”

I toss a pillow at her.

She just laughs at my discomfort. But then she sobers and says, “You’re beautiful too, you know. When you get intense, you spark. And you have the kind of hair any man would want to get tangled in.”

Of its own accord, my hand goes to my braid, strokes it. I’ve always liked my hair. Would a man really notice it?

Mara adds, “You don’t have to settle for a first time like mine.”

I shift the subject. “Well, if I ever meet that young man, I’ll . . . er . . . speak sternly to him.”

“Oh, you have already. It was Belén.”

I am stunned. “I thought . . . he and Cosmé . . .”

“Yes. But that was after.”

I had no idea the two knew each other before we formed the Malficio. What must it be like for Mara to have him show up here in the palace? I say, “I can make sure you never encounter him while he is here.”

“No need. I’m quite over it. We even got to be friends again when we stayed in Father Alentín’s camp.” She stands. “And you, my queen, need to get some rest. Full schedule tomorrow.”

I stand. On impulse, I wrap my arms around her. She freezes for a split second, but then she returns my embrace. “Thank you,” I whisper.

After I creep back to bed and blow out my candle, my thoughts are still too busy, my skin too warm, for easy sleep. It’s terrifying to consider that I might someday share a bed with a man who is a stranger, a calculated alliance, someone who might not care for me at all.

The next evening, escorted by Hector and several guards, I am hurrying toward my office for appointments with a few more suitors when Conde Eduardo intercepts us.

“May I walk with you, Your Majesty?” he asks.

Ugh. “Please.” Hector moves aside to give him room. I hope the conde is not planning to intrude on my meetings again.

Eduardo is formally dressed as always, with gold epaulets that mark him as both a high conde and a Quorum lord. My nose stings at the sharp mix of tallow and palm oil, which means his close-cropped black beard has suffered a recent repair.

“I hear you visited the prison tower yesterday,” he says.

“Hmm,” I say noncommittally.

“And that the young prince accompanied you.”

Once again, I curse myself for thoughtlessness. I should not have sent Storm to the tower, no matter how much I wanted to put him in his place. Now I must give an account or raise further suspicions. And I must say something that satisfies Eduardo enough that he won’t pursue little Rosario with his questions.