Rae Carson - The Girl of Fire and Thorns

But that same someone ignored my prayers and allowed my lady-in-waiting to die. It makes no sense, but Aneaxi’s dying wish was that I not lose faith. I’m trusting a lot of people on faith. My sister, Ximena, Alejandro, and now God himself. I will need more than this, O God. If you love me as Aneaxi said, please send me something to go on. Something soon. Tender heat blossoms in my belly, spreads into my chest and down my arms until they tingle delightfully. It is the same as that night by Aneaxi’s bed, the night I pleaded with God for her life, so I’m afraid it means nothing.

Cosmé arrives before Ximena returns. She curtsies, but I catch her sullen look. I don’t release her from her curtsy until I’m certain she is uncomfortable.

“Hello, Cosmé.”

She rises. “Highness, the condesa says you sent for me.” Her short black hair curls so appealingly from under her maid’s cap, and her black eyes are wide with virtue. I want to pinch her.

I swallow guiltily. “Yes. I’ll need a maid for my stay, and I’m quite taken with you.” I wonder if it sounds as silly to her as it does to me. “Ariña was kind enough to lend you to me.”

“What would you have me do?”

I hadn’t thought this far. She will need to be kept busy. Too busy to spy or gossip.

“Er . . .” I look around my suite, searching for ideas. Like all the rooms I’ve seen in this monstrosity of a palace, it is far too large for so few furnishings. It feels open and gaping and altogether unhomelike. “I need a chair. Two chairs. If you can’t find any, I trust you to commission them. Also, I need plants. Large plants in pots. Anything green and alive. I want two for the balcony, at least two for the bedroom, one for Ximena’s room.”

Cosmé gapes at me like I’ve swallowed a scorpion. I try not to look too smug. Not only will such a task take her all day in this empty, barren place, it will give her something harmless to blather passionately about.

I’m still congratulating myself when Ximena appears.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” she says.

I don’t want to talk about the things that have stolen my smile lately. “You released the pigeons?”

She nods. “The handler was quite curious. It was wise to write in the Lengua Classica.” The holy language. Ximena scribed copies of the scriptures for years and is probably as fluent, if not more so, than I.

“When Lord Hector comes,” I say, trying to sound offhand, “let’s see if he’ll take us to the monastery.”

Longing widens her eyes. “I would like that very much,” she whispers.

We don’t wait long. Lord Hector appears in the doorway dressed in light armor—rawhide instead of steel, a brown walking cloak instead of the crimson drape of the Royal Guard—and bows from the waist.

“Ready, Highness?” I take the offered arm and step into the hall, Ximena following behind.

Lord Hector’s knowledge of the palace and its history astounds me. He guides us through the armory, the reception hall, the grand ballroom, the library. Know your environment, the Belleza Guerra says. So I focus carefully on what he tells us. I repeat words and phrases in my mind and create pictures to accompany them, the way Master Geraldo taught me. And tomorrow, I will retrace this walk and try to remember everything I learned. It won’t be difficult; Lord Hector’s enthusiasm is contagious.

In the portrait room, he points out Alejandro’s father, a thickset and graying version of my husband. King Nicolao, the guard tells us, beat back the forces of Invierne to save the hill villages east of the desert. He was killed by a stray arrow during battle.

Something about Nicolao, or maybe about the last war with Invierne, silences the guard.

“You served Alejandro’s father?”

He nods, his eyes fixed on the painting. “Indirectly. When I was twelve years old, I became Prince Alejandro’s page. We often kept company with the king. He was a good man.” I don’t know him well enough to determine if it’s wistfulness that softens his voice.

But something makes me ask, “And Alejandro?”

He finally looks away from the face of King Nicolao to stare at me. “His Majesty is . . . different from his father. But he is also a good man.”

“You are young to have made Royal Guard.”

“I grew up here in the palace, and Alejandro was like an older brother to me. When the position became available, it gave him comfort to assign it to me.”

It’s hard not to fidget under his gaze. Lord Hector is formidable and stern in the space beside me, and so intent that it’s possible he’s trying to communicate something different. He has the look of one with a mighty mind, whose thoughts spin hidden beneath the impassive surface.

Master Geraldo would like Lord Hector.

The guard raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’m grinning. “You remind me of someone,” I explain.

He smiles back. Years of soldiering drop from his face, and I realized he’s even younger than I thought. His teeth are startling; so white beneath his mustache and so rarely displayed. He says, “Someone whose company you enjoy, I hope.”

The words feel strangely out of character for him. “Of course,” I manage.

But I sense him stiffen, and a sudden cushion of awkwardness makes him feel far away.

He gestures toward the portrait next to King Nicolao’s. It’s of a woman with silk-smooth skin and obsidian hair. She wears a cream-colored gown and fingers a matching string of pearls with a delicate, tapered hand. She reminds me of my sister, with the same subtle grace and serene composure that elevates a pretty woman to true beauty.

“That is Queen Rosaura, Alejandro’s first wife and mother to Prince Rosario.”

My heart drops into my stomach and warmth floods my cheeks. I hadn’t truly understood, until this moment, how impossible it would be for Alejandro to love me.

“Highness?” the guard asks. “Do you feel unwell?”

I put my hand to my stomach. “Did you hear that growl?” I give a nervous laugh as Ximena catches my eye. I wish she didn’t know me so well. “Lord Hector, why don’t you show us to the kitchens next?” And I offer him my arm. It’s a trick of Alodia’s I’ve observed hundreds of times, whenever she needs to distract or confound.

He takes my arm and we turn to go, but not before I glimpse a crack in his composure. It’s fleeting, but I’m struck by how the lines around his eyes and mouth settle into sorrow with comfortable familiarity.

The kitchen master is delighted to fill me with honey and coconut scones. By the time we reach the monastery, I’m miserable from stuffing myself and from walking so much.

The monastery attaches gracelessly to the north wing of Alejandro’s palace. One moment we walk beneath wood-beam braces, along sandstone hallways trimmed in the same blue-gold tile as my atrium; the next, we are surrounded by low-ceilinged adobe, curving walls, and clay tile floors. It’s as if we’ve stepped from Joya d’Arena into Papá’s palace hacienda, and I feel a pang of desire for home.

A tiny, aged man draped in undyed wool hobbles toward us, pointed features twitching. Ximena surprises me by asking, “You are Father Nicandro?”

He claps and grins wide. “Lady Ximena! I received word from Father Donatzine to expect you.” He embraces her while Lord Hector and I look on, invisible.

I close my eyes while they chatter, inhaling the poignant scent of roses and prayer candles. I know I will return to this place often, to pray or merely to be silent and alone. The Godstone responds to my thoughts with warm, soft comfort.

Father Nicandro breaks off midsentence. He turns his head to study me. “Donatzine did not tell me,” he whispers. “Ximena, you are guardian to the bearer!”