Page 113 of Written in Starlight

Manuel clicks his teeth and our party lurches forward into the main courtyard. A brightly-hued llama peers at us, lips smacking indolently. This isn’t any kind of llama I’ve ever seen. Vibrant red strands of wool are woven throughout his hair coat, along with shimmering glimpses of moon thread. I’d know Ximena’s work anywhere. Manuel takes a step back, eyes widening.

Rumi throws us a wink. “Careful, he spits.”

As if to prove his point, the llama takes a step toward us and lobs a hairball at Rumi, who’s only response is to send the animal off with a fond smile.

Manuel dismounts, then helps me down. When my toes skim the ground, he leans forward and presses a light kiss on my temple. “Remember when you flew between two cliffs?” he asks. “This is going to be much easier than that.”

“So you say,” I mutter. “I’d rather face a caimán.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“Ineverexaggerate.”

Manuel snorts, then clasps my hand in his. The rest of our party dismounts, and a stable hand comes running, the fringe of his poncho swinging around his skinny legs. I’m unsure of where to go or what to ask for. My throat is dry, and I’d like a pitcher of jugo all to myself. Rumi marches past other wooly creatures—a slow moving sloth, a fierce looking jaguar, and an anaconda curled around an ecstatic bunny—toward a pair of great wooden doors. They suddenly fling open, and a girl bursts through.

It’s her.

Dark hair flying behind her, her eyes fixed on the healer. She wears loose-fitting trousers and a billowing tunic stitched with big florals in vibrant shades of purple and red. She doesn’t carry a weapon, and her feet are bound in leather sandals. No more boots with hidden daggers. Rumi spreads his arms wide, and I expect her to hug him tight, but instead she smacks his stomach.

He lets out a grunt, and then laughs, bending over to scoop the furry sloth into his arms. He makes soothing noises, and the wooly animal slowly raises his arm to Rumi’s cheek.

“Where have you been?” she demands. “I’ve been worried sick! Aweek, you said. If it wasn’t for Tamaya—”

“Reina Tamaya,” Rumi corrects, his lips twitching. “Por Dios, show some respect.”

“Don’t you dare be cute,” Ximena says, aghast, but her eyes dance in merriment. “Why are you so thin?”

The healer winces. “The situation in the jungle got a little out of hand.”

“Rumi, what happened? You’ve been gone for weeks!” she says, wrapping her arms around his waist, careful not to squish the sloth. “And tell me about Catalina. Is she—”

I step forward, half wanting to save Rumi from further scolding, and half because I’m impatient to see her up close. I’ve never seen her this happy, this free. She carries herself differently, less stiffly, as if she’s comfortable in her own skin now.

“Hola, Ximena.”

She abruptly stops talking. Her eyes widen, and she slowly turns around. Manuel squeezes my hand then lets go. I swallow hard, taking in the sight of her. The wind teases her hair, and her tunic billows around her like a flag. Some of the old tension returns, her back straightening, her shoulders tensing.

Behind her, the door opens again and Reina Tamaya steps out into the sunlight, squinting in my direction. She’s just as beautiful as the last time I saw her, despite the long scar following the curve of her cheek. I swallow hard, my lips going dry. Should I bow or kneel? I’m frozen to the cobbled stone, unsure. For some reason, she doesn’t seem surprised to see me. She drops her hand, and a knowing smile stretches her lips. I dip my chin, the slightest inclination of my head.

Then the reina winks at me, as if she already knew I’d survive the jungle, that I’d somehow make it back to this same castillo that houses so many of my old memories.

Ximena looks between us. “Catalina?” she whispers, cataloging the brightly woven Illari tunic I’m wearing, the gold jewelry around my neck, the gift from Sonco. Across my body I carry a leather satchel, and her attention snags on my dented bronze telescope. “You look different.”

I’m suddenly aware of my travel-stained clothes and limp hair. “I must be a sight.”

She waves her hand impatiently, in a gesture so familiar that tears gather in my eyes. “No, I mean—” She clears her throat and laughs awkwardly. “I meant, youseemdifferent.”

“I am.” I clutch my hands tightly together. “I’d like to explain how much.”

Her smile grows—hesitant, a bit watery. She takes another small step toward me.

And I meet her halfway.