A couple of weeks. That’s far too long. Ximena and Tristán can’t keep up a pretense with decoy Elisa forever. Our ruse is sure to be discovered, and a queen can only go missing for so long before everything degenerates into chaos, before ambitious condes—like Eduardo—begin wrestling for power in the wake of my disappearance.
“Our biggest problem,” Felix says, “is supplies. Looks like we’ll have plenty of fresh water, but we lost an entire barrel of salted pork, and one of the grain bins is soaked. We’ll have to forage and fish, not just for our stay here, but for the return journey.”
I’m about to ask after his wounded crewmen when Hector saunters up and leans against the railing. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.
I nod, gazing at a sparkling stream pouring from the jungle and into the sea. From here it looks like a silver ribbon winding through green velvet. “All that water! The place looks alive. It’s unnatural.”
He laughs. “You’ve been in the desert too long.”
I grin up at him. “I look at those waterfalls and see the wealth of a thousand nations.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what they are. Do you sense anything? Is it still guiding you?” He glances toward my navel, and my stomach does a little flip to remember his hands on my skin.
“It’s very strong now,” I tell him. “And when I healed Mara, it was a lot easier. The power was right there when I called it, even though . . . even though . . . I . . .”
He studies me, letting me struggle for words. Then, “Even though the need was not as great?” he offers softly. “She wasn’t injured as badly.”
I nod.
A crewman’s head appears at the stair. “Captain!” he calls. “Eight and a half fathoms at last sounding.”
“Drop anchor!” Felix booms.
“Ready to go ashore?” Hector asks.
I stare at the island; it’s so wild and foreign and foreboding. “Ready,” I lie.
Chapter 26
I hurry back to the captain’s quarters to grab my pack. I peek inside and find, to my immense relief, that my bottle of lady’s shroud is intact. Mara holds up her satchel and nods, which I take to mean that hers survived too.
The Aracely’s dinghy was lost to the hurricane, but by some miracle our trawler stayed tied down on the quarterdeck. I’m eager to get to shore, but Hector insists on letting another group go first. “Let them scout around, make sure it’s safe,” he says, and I agree reluctantly.
I pace back and forth across the deck as a group of eight men with supplies rows toward the beach. Once they are close enough, they jump out and pull the boat onto shore, unload, and then disappear into the jungle. It seems like forever passes before they reemerge, waving with a signal that all is well. Finally two men push off and hop back into the boat, leaving the rest behind to start setting up a camp.
Mara, Belén, Storm, Hector, and I are in the second group to ferry over. As we settle in the boat, the tug on my Godstone is so insistent as to be nearly painful. To distract myself from the discomfort, I trail my fingers in the warm, clear water as we skim the bay. The fish astound me. I see brightest gold, flashes of red, even Godstone blue. I’m tempted to dive in for a swim.
Once we reach the shallows, I jump from the boat and splash through water, heedless of soaking my clothes. We drag the boat onto the sand, and I’m surprised when my legs waver, as if the land leaps and rolls like an ocean.
Hector notices my teetering and grins. “You’ll adjust to solid ground soon enough.”
The sailors who disembarked before us have begun setting up a haphazard camp. They’ve already lined a fire pit and erected one tent—but they’re doing it all wrong. I suppose that, as seamen, they’ve had few opportunities to organize encampments on land. On the other hand, I’ve had plenty.
“You there,” I call. “Haul the supplies farther into the trees. We need shelter from wind and surf. And you, would you move the fire pit, please? Find a spot where sparks won’t catch on dried palm fronds overhead.” I tap my fingers to my lips. If we’re to be here for weeks, then we need a latrine pit, far away from our water source. “Belén, do you see a good spot for digging a—”
“Latrine? Against the cliff face, there,” he says, pointing. “It’s downwind and far enough from the stream.”
“Yes, perfect.” I gesture toward a man I’ve seen in Felix’s confidence on several occasions. “Do you read and write?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Compile an inventory of all our supplies—fishing gear, foodstuffs, tools, material we could use for repair, everything you can think of.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I eye the stream critically. The silt has created a small sandbar that protects it at low tide and keeps the mouth narrow. I mutter, mostly to myself, “We may have enough undamaged netting to stretch all the way across, which would take care of our fishing needs even if we come up short on other tackle.”
I look up to find Hector staring at me thoughtfully.
“Anything I haven’t thought of yet?” I ask him.
He closes the distance between us. My breath catches as he grasps my upper arm. In a low voice meant for my ears only, he says, “If you were like this, with this kind of confidence, this clarity of thought, while in Brisadulce, no one would dare challenge your rule.”
My heart sinks a little. He means it as encouragement more than criticism, and the thumb sweeping across my shoulder attests to how much he cares. But it stings because he’s right. A whole country is so much vaster, more complicated, more important, than a village of desert refugees or a temporary island camp. That’s why I’m here, after all. Because I need something more than just me to do a good job of it. I haven’t been enough.
“Perhaps I spoke out of turn,” Hector says. “But I truly believe you have it in you to be a great queen.”
I lift my chin. “Thank you for saying so.”
“I’ll get started on that latrine.” He turns to go.
“Hector, wait.”
He whirls. Sand clings to the bottom of his soaked breeches, and the moisture in the air has turned his hair into a mass of waves.
I say, “You have never said anything to me that is out of turn.”
He knows I’m speaking of a different moment entirely, for he allows himself a slow, satisfied smile that turns my insides to date pudding.
I add, “I expect honesty and truth from you always.”
He nods once, firmly. “And you shall have it.”
We end up making camp in a small clearing well back from shore, where the coconut palms are interspersed with rambling pink bougainvillea bushes and thick banyan trees with sprawling roots. Morning-glory vines wind up their trunks, dripping purple flowers. Their close cousins, the yellow night bloomers, twine in sync with them, and it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. But when evening falls, the morning glories will twist closed as the night bloomers unfurl, bathing our campsite in soft light.
After a late-afternoon meal of dried jerky, pistachios, and fresh mango, I announce that I will begin searching for the zafira first thing in the morning, while Felix’s men make repairs to the ship.
“You know which direction to go?” Hector asks.
“Oh, yes,” I say, pressing my fingertips to the Godstone. “It’s very . . . compelling.”
“I’d rather explore a bit first,” he says. “The island seems to be deserted, but I’d like to be sure.”
I sigh. Of course he would. “The day after tomorrow, then?”
“I think it would be best.”
I nod, but I avoid his gaze as I come to a decision.
The hurricane is not the only test I will face; I’m certain of it. Storm said it will get harder as I get closer, and I’ve put everyone else at risk enough as it is. We have lost two men overboard already. I could not bear to lose Mara or Belén. Or Hector.
I have demanded his honesty but not given him mine, for tomorrow I will deceive him. While he’s out exploring, I will slip away—alone.
When I finally dare glance at him, he is studying me through narrowed eyes.
Beside me, Mara wipes her fingers on her pants and says, with a mouth still full of mango, “I need a bath. And to wash my clothes. Maybe we could find a good place upstream?”
I’m glad for the excuse to turn away from Hector. “That sounds lovely. My boots still stink of sewer.”
“Belén and I will scout first,” Hector says. “We’ll need to sweep the area.”
Mara and I make no effort to disguise our shared eye roll.
We tell Captain Felix where we’re going, and then the four of us make our way upstream. It’s a rough hike through thick jungle and slippery mud. The farther inland we go, the rockier and steeper it gets, and I step carefully.
At last the stream widens into a pool, hemmed in by black boulders and curving palms. In the middle of the pool, just slightly off center, is a large bean-shaped rock with a flat top. “It’s perfect!” Mara exclaims.
While Hector and Belén scout around, we empty our packs and rinse everything—spare clothes, knives, water skins—of any leftover sewage. I even pull out my crown box. The wood is warped and streaked with salt, the cushion a soggy mess. But the Godstone crown is as pristine as ever. I dunk it in the pool, wipe it down carefully with my spare blouse, and then set it atop my pack to dry.
When they are out of sight, when we can’t even hear them rustling through the jungle, we pull out our bottles of lady’s shroud and quickly down the appropriate dose. Mara grins all the while, delighted with our little intrigue. But I feel awkward and strange. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do. And Hector feels far too important to be merely the object of two giggling girls playing at love.
But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Perhaps by forcing smallness onto this thing that is so huge in my heart, I’ll be able to manage it.
They return and declare the area safe. “We’ll be within earshot,” Hector says as he and Belén retreat downstream.
“I just bet you will,” Mara mutters.
I look at her, startled. “You really think they would . . . peek?”
She sighs. “Just wishing. Neither of them would. Too honorable.” She waggles a finger at me. “But don’t think it hasn’t crossed their minds.”
I manage a wan smile in return. The thought of being so exposed fills me with a little excitement and a lot of dismay. I don’t despair of my body the way I used to. But it’s still worrying.
Being n**ed before Mara, however, is another matter; she’s my lady-in-waiting, after all. “Race you,” I say.
Together we struggle with the laces of our blouses, shuck our boots and our pants, and jump in. It’s deep, and when I break the surface, I gasp from the cold shock. But it’s clean and clear and wonderful, and soon Mara and I are splashing and laughing and forgetting to wash anything.
We swim for a long time before Mara finally grabs soap from her pack and we lather everything—our skin, our hair, our clothes. We hang the clothes to dry, then lie side by side on the flat rock, soaking up the warmth of late afternoon.
“Your scar,” I say. “It really is better.” It’s less angry, less puckered.
“Yours too,” she says, and then she laughs. “We’re an oddly matched pair, aren’t we?”
The sun is dipping behind the giant peaks and tree frogs are beginning to chorus by the time we swim to shore and don our still-damp clothes. We find Hector and Belén downstream a ways, and it’s obvious they did some washing up of their own, for they are scrubbed clean and smell faintly of soap.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I say to Hector as we begin the trek back. “We lost track of time.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, but his voice is curt. I glance up to find his face has gone flinty cold.
I look away, feeling vaguely hurt. But I won’t ask if I’ve done something to anger him in front of the others. The four of us hike through the jungle in silence.
The night bloomers have unfurled by the time we return to camp. Our tents float in a garden of stars, reflecting palest blue in their soft light. A breeze rustles the palm fronds above us.
After a quick meal of whitefish baked on sticks over the fire pit, I unravel the hasty braid Mara did for me after our swim. I’m beginning to loose the laces of my blouse when the import of what I’ll do tomorrow hits me. My fingers pause on the ties.
I know so little about the zafira. I have no idea what will happen or what I’ll find. I don’t even know if I’ll make it back. What if I never see him again?
I crawl from my tent and go in search of Hector.
I find him on the beach, just outside the line of palm trees. He sits on a hollowed-out log, one knee bent, the other long leg stretched out in the sand. He grips a tall stick, which he whittles with his dagger. It takes me a moment to realize he’s making a spear.
He looks up as I approach, his face unreadable.
“Do you mind company?” I ask.
With a lift of his chin, he indicates the space on the log next to him. I settle beside him, careful to avoid the end of his stick, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The sea glows with the light of a half moon. I lift my face to the breeze and listen to the gentle lap and suck of the surf and the whisk-whisk sound of Hector’s knife against the wood.
“What are you doing here, Elisa?” he asks in a weary voice.