No one dances yet. It’s up to me to begin the festivities.
The moment I enter, the hall goes silent. Hector pauses in the threshold, giving them a chance to size up their queen. I hold lightly to his arm, and he reaches with his other hand and gives mine a quick squeeze.
Everyone bows, but their collective gaze fixes on my new crown. I give them a defiant smile in return and wait the space of a few beats for them to fully understand what they see.
I gesture for everyone to rise, and Hector and I resume our procession. The crowd breaks into a flurry of low-voiced conversations. I catch the words “Godstone” and “sorcery.” I hold my smile easily, knowing the crown has had its intended effect.
At the end of the hall, my throne dais has been rolled away to reveal the massive Hand of God, a masterwork of marble sculpture we gaze upon only once each year. My Godstone leaps in rapturous response. I calm it with my fingertips, mumbling, “Stop that.”
The man who carved the hand, Lutián of the Rocks, spent his whole short life working on it. They say he was overcome with God’s spirit, that he carved with fevered frenzy, stopping only for occasional food and drink and sleep. When he finished at the age of twenty-one, he pronounced it good and promptly collapsed of a burst heart. He bore a living Godstone, like me, and carving this giant hand was his great service.
With Hector’s help, I climb the steps leading to God’s cupped fingers. I step across them carefully, for they are as rounded and ridged as real fingers. I spread the skirt of my aquamarine gown around me, and lower myself so that I sit cross-legged in the giant palm.
The crowd hushes in expectation.
I close my eyes, lift my hands to the sky, and intone the Deliverance blessing.
In you our ancestors put their trust,
they cried out and you delivered them.
Yea, from the dying world they were saved;
in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;
your righteous right hand endures forever.
“Selah!” the crowd thunders.
The musicians resume, dancers float onto the center floor, and the Deliverance Gala has officially begun.
From below, Hector gestures for me to come down. Normally, the monarch would sit in the Hand of God for several dances, absorbing luck and blessing. But it is too dangerous for me to be exposed for so long.
Holding tight to his hand for support, I navigate the steps, mindful of my full skirt. My foot has barely reached the floor when I am accosted by my first partner.
“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?” asks Prince Rosario. He bows with the ease of long practice, his small fingers outstretched in gentlemanly supplication.
“Of course!” I say with genuine enthusiasm, taking the offered hand.
His head does not even reach my chest, and I’m tempted to lead him, but he seems determined to do the job credibly, so I let him.
“Did your nurse put you up to this?” I ask.
He peers up at me from beneath thick lashes—his cinnamon eyes are so like his father’s—and says, “No, but Carilla wants to dance with me.” With a quick tip of his chin, he indicates a young girl with wild curls and satin ruffles standing at the edge of the crowd, no more than nine years old. Rosario wrinkles his nose. “She tries to kiss me. It’s awful.”
I laugh. “So you told her you had to dance with me instead.”
He nods solemnly. “Even though you are a terrible dancer. Dancing with you is better than dancing with Carilla.”
With equal solemnity, I say, “Excellent decision. You will be a wise king one day.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Wiser than Papá. Everyone says so.”
My heart breaks for him a little. “We should drift across the hall so that you are far away from Carilla when the song ends.”
He brightens. “Good idea!”
As we dance, I ask him about his studies, which he loathes, and his swordsmanship lessons with Hector, which he loves. By the time our dance ends, we are laughing together over his favorite pony, who can nose his way to a syrupy date even through three layers of clothing. I don’t step on Rosario’s feet even once.
When we separate, he bows. “I thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” he intones.
“It was a pleasure, Your Highness,” I respond. Several people around us applaud lightly, as if we have put on a bit of theater. And I suppose we have. I hope it has cheered them to see their queen and her heir having a good time together.
A hand grasps my elbow. I look up into Hector’s worried face. He whispers, “Please. Do not drift through the crowd while dancing. Stay close to the edge, where I can see you.”
The music changes to a slow, rhythmic bolero.
“I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.” He is very close, and my heart starts to pound. I remember our last lesson, the way his hands stroked up my bare forearm, showing me proper form, guiding my movements. The way the world dropped away as we moved effortlessly together, lost in the drill that was more like a dance.
I whisper, “Dance with me.”
He pauses, as if considering. Then, “Yes, Your Majesty.” And my heart sinks to think that dancing with me may be yet another duty for him. But then I can’t think of anything at all, for his hand has slipped around my waist to pull me toward him. Holding my gaze, his left hand slides gently down my forearm to my fingers. He entwines them with his own and spins me into the center of the floor.
We are not close enough as we dance. I imagine myself pressed against him, my face buried in his neck. But this particular dance demands a certain choreographed distance, and we comply. I focus instead on the hand at the small of my back. The leather of my hidden corset protects me from daggers, but it protects me from Hector’s touch too, and I find myself hating it. I can feel the pressure of his hand but no more. I want to feel his fingers, his warmth. I want to feel everything.
“How is your injury?” I ask, to distract myself.
“I have forgotten to notice it.”
I have no idea how to respond. After a moment of my stunned silence, he says, “Of all your suitors, has any one caught your particular attention yet?”
His question startles me. It feels out of place. Forced.
I consider making a joke but abandon the idea. Instead I say, “I haven’t encountered many yet, but Conde Tristán seems nice. He’s intelligent and charming. And . . . and I think he likes me, too.”
“You think he could be a good friend, then?”
“Maybe. I don’t . . .” I don’t love him. “I don’t know that the Quorum will approve. He’s southern, after all. But I think he’s a good man.”
I hear him sigh, and his arm squeezes my waist, pulling me a little closer. He says, “I’m glad. You could do much worse. And I’ll always be grateful to him for coming to our aid.”
I nod agreement, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. It’s wrong of me, I know, but I don’t want Hector to be glad about a potential suitor.
The dance floor is full now, and Hector is careful to keep us from brushing against anyone else. He leans down and whispers, “I’m not sure it’s proper for a queen to dance with her guard.”
My heart sinks a little more. Always the dutiful commander. I lift my head to whisper back at him, and my lips accidentally brush his jaw when I say, “I don’t care.”
“May I cut in, Your Majesty?”
I turn toward the intruder, angry.
It’s Conde Tristán. He is so wide-eyed with nervousness that I soften at once.
Hector says, “Of course, Your Grace. Her Majesty and I were just discussing some of the finer points of security, but our conversation is finished.” He spins me toward the conde, and I catch one last glimpse of his unreadable face before Tristán traps me in his arms and Hector drifts back into shadow.
The bolero is picking up speed now. “I can’t imagine that anyone would risk God’s wrath by trying to harm you during his own holiday,” the conde says.
I don’t care to discuss my safety anymore. “How is Iladro?”
He brightens. “Much better, thank you. He can only eat small portions, and he remains weak, but he’s better every day. I pray for a full recovery. If God can heal Lord Hector so thoroughly, surely he has some mercy to spare for my herald.”
“You are very devout then?” I crane my neck, looking for Hector, but I can’t find him. I know he watches me, though. I can feel it.
“Only in recent years. Since my father’s death, I’ve taken great comfort in weekly services, most especially the holy sacrament of pain. The slight discomfort of a thorn prick is very meditative and calming. It helps me exist in the present moment, helps me forget the stresses of ruling a countship.”
He could not have answered more perfectly if I had coached him myself, and I stare at him in suspicion.
“Does Selvarica have its own monastery?”
“No. But it would be my life’s greatest legacy to establish a Monastery-at-Selvarica. I’ve been working on it. So far, we’ve been unable to attract a head priest to our tiny countship.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly, I can’t imagine. We’re remote, I suppose. But Selvarica is the most beautiful place in the world. A lush green island, surrounded by sea the color of blue quartz. Never too warm, never too cold. The mountain peaks trap enough rainclouds to provide water year-round. Waterfalls tumble from verdant cliffs into icy pools. Flowers grow everywhere. Truly, Selvarica is God’s own garden.”
“It sounds lovely.”
His voice grows husky. “I would love to show it to you someday.”
I return his intent gaze without flinching. We are the same height, which is a nice change. Hector and Mara and Ximena are all unusually tall, and it seems as though I’m always craning my neck.
I say, “I may pay a state visit. The Quorum has suggested I tour the country after hurricane season. They would like to make a very big deal of it. Lots of fanfare.”
He laughs. “You sound as though you despise the idea.”
I grin. “I’ve considered making unreasonable demands. Just to punish them for the thought. Like refusing to ride in a mere carriage. Only a litter will do!”
“And trumpets. A queen should be heralded for the entirety of her journey.”
“And chilled fruit, which would be near impossible to provide during a long journey. Imagine the fit I could have.”
“Also, a change of clothes every two hours. A queen should stay fresh at all times.”
The song ends, and I’m surprised to realize that I enjoyed our dance.
Conde Tristán raises my fingers to his lips and kisses them. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Before dropping my hand, his gaze turns mischievous. “You are not as terrible a dancer as your reputation indicates.”
I laugh. “Just a little bit terrible, then.”
He has a wonderful smile, with eyes that shine. “A little bit,” he agrees. “But you forgot to step on my feet.” With that, he whirls away and disappears into the crowd.
I look around for Hector again and spot him near a drink table. He chats easily with a young woman I don’t recognize. She wears a soft green gown, and her clear skin sparkles with metallic powder. A long black lock drapes from the mound of luxuriant hair piled on her head, across her bare shoulder.
I stare at her with dejection. I’ll never be so lovely.
Lord Liano claims me next. He is oafish and wide gazed, his sweaty lip as protuberant as ever, which makes him appear stunningly stupid. I listen with heroic patience as he regales me with the tale of an epic hunt for wild javelinas, which he lovingly describes as piglike creatures that roam the scrub desert of his brother’s countship. When he attempts to mimic the chattering noise that javelinas make by rubbing their tusks together, I am forced to conclude that, indeed, sometimes the impression of a man’s look and bearing holds true.
I hope Conde Tristán will claim me next—he asked me for two dances, after all—but Conde Eduardo finds me first. He is rough and jerky, and his hand on mine is too tight, his beard oil too pungent. I plaster a game smile on my face, but it wavers when I notice Hector dancing beside us, the lovely green-gowned creature in his arms. They seem to have an easy conversation interspersed with much laughing, though he looks over her head occasionally to check on me, always the devoted guard. I can’t mask my relief when the song ends.
After thanking Eduardo, I catch Hector’s eye and gesture toward the nearest refreshment table to let him know where I’m headed. Though it lies only a few steps away, I decline three offers to dance during the short journey, saying that I’m still healing from my ordeal and need to pace myself, but thank you so very much for the invitation.
A servant offers a glass of chilled wine, and I accept with grateful despair, knowing that a new taster now risks his life for me. Everything at the gala has been thoroughly tasted, hours earlier, and then again right before bringing it out.
As I sip, I glimpse Mara between dancing pairs. She twirls, laughing, and I smile to see her having such a good time. She is beautiful in a light yellow gown that sweeps into a slight train behind her. It’s the plainest gown in the hall, without a stitch of embroidery or even a tiny pearl. But the simplicity suits her well, and the women around her seem gaudy by comparison.
“Mara seems to be enjoying herself,” says Hector in my ear, and I hope he doesn’t notice my tiny jump.
“She deserves to have a good time. As do you.” I gesture toward the floor. “You should dance. Have fun. If your injury allows it, I mean.” I can’t deny him a little celebration. He works so tirelessly on my behalf.