A sound from outside scattered her thoughts and guilt. Vasco asking, “Who are you? Where’s Yzabel?”
She immediately scampered out of the dolmen, shouting, “Here!” as she forced her sluggish feet to crest the dolmen’s entrance. “I’m fine.”
“I couldn’t find you for most of the afternoon. You went in there, and when the mantle came flying out, when hours passed, I thought…”
Yzabel had thought it odd that the sun had come close to setting in such a short amount of time, and she looked to Fatyan, who read the question without her needing to voice it.
“Time passes differently in the stone,” the Moura explained. “Sometimes slower, sometimes faster, and you can never tell which is which. Especially when you’re stuck in a cave without sunlight.”
Shaking his head, Vasco lowered dazed eyes to Yzabel’s cloak draped in his arms like a blanket of snow, then came over to place the heavy warmth back on her shoulders. He grabbed both her arms for a second as if to ascertain she was truly here, then settled his attention back on Fatyan. “Is she…?”
Under the setting sun, her guard and the Moura exchanged a glance that brimmed with mistrust. Fatyan bristled at the way his eyes raked her over from head to toe, her arms coming to a defiant cross over her chest.
Yzabel stepped between them. “Yes. This is Fatyan, the Enchanted Moura. Fatyan, this is Dom Vasco Pires, head of my Guarda.”
Vasco’s thick-eyebrowed glower intensified. If Fatyan was uncomfortable, however, it didn’t show in the flamboyant bow that followed, or her teasing, “Enchanted to meet you.”
Vasco didn’t move, and the unamused dark of his eyes didn’t leave Fatyan. “I assume she managed to rid you of the curse, then?”
A fierce scowl took over Fatyan’s face as her hands became fists, ready to demand respect over being ignored. Yzabel needed to smother the suspicions between these two before any conflict could escalate.
“There’s been a change of plans. Fatyan will stay with us a while, and you will not speak of her as though she’s not present.”
The bags he carried fell to the ground with a heavy thump. “She didn’t end the curse?”
The gall of him to do it right after she told him not to. Yzabel fixed him with a glare, not speaking until Vasco apologetically turned to Fatyan and reframed his question.
“You couldn’t take it away?”
“No. It’s impossible to take away someone’s magic when they’re born with it. All I can do is teach her to control it.”
Vasco regarded Fatyan with a critical eye. “You are going to pose problems.”
Fatyan snorted. “Why, because I’m a Moor?”
“No, that part of you blends in just fine, since most Moors are Portuguese nowadays. The problem is that you’ll be a beautiful stranger staying with the princess.” He turned to Yzabel. “Surely you don’t need to be reminded of whom you’re engaged to.”
Yzabel’s sigh was as guilty as her avoidant gaze. As much as she was loath to admit it, Vasco had a point—she couldn’t show up with a woman out of nowhere. Especially one who was bound to draw Denis’s gaze; one who smelled like almonds and tasted of cinnamon.
The stone dangerously heated up in Yzabel’s hand, and she could’ve sworn Fatyan flickered—there, then not, then there, then not.
“What does he mean?” Fatyan’s wispy question barely reached Yzabel.
“That my betrothed is a known philanderer and you’re… Well.” The flashing heat of the stone climbed to her face, and she cleared her awkward throat. “But as far as I know, he doesn’t tend to chase unwilling skirts.” Her own included. Come to think of it, Denis had rarely spent a night out at the brothel, and much preferred to keep the company of Aldonza, one of Yzabel’s future ladies-in-waiting.
“All right.” Fatyan relaxed, and Yzabel released her pent-up breath before putting the stone in her pocket.
“Do you have any idea how long it might take for me to master the curse?”
“Hard to tell.” The Moura looked up to the sky and the already visible close-to-full moon. “If we can get you to accept your sahar, we can perform the ritual in a couple of days. We need a full moon, plus some herbs and spices. After that, controlling your gift should be easier—but I’ll have to remain at your side until our bargain is sealed.”
“And it won’t be until I can make bread out of roses.” Yzabel chewed on her lip. “Might be best if we sneak you in and we stay in my rooms until then.”
Face drained of color, Fatyan took a step back, hugging herself as if struck by an onslaught of cold. From her lips tumbled out a plea, “I can’t be locked up again. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”
The harrowing sorrow heated the stone again, and before it could burn a hole in her dress, Yzabel rushed to envelope Fatyan in a hug. The gesture surprised even herself, as she wasn’t prone to touching others, but the instinct to comfort Fatyan had been so strong it overpowered the rest. This poor woman had been locked away for half a century, no wonder this was her reaction.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, hands circling comfort around Fatyan’s trembling back. “We don’t have to hide you, but we do need to come up with a story. If we tell the wrong person you’re an Enchanted Moura, they’ll either try to pry the supposed demons from our skulls or execute us for black magic.”
Fatyan nodded against Yzabel’s neck. “Thank you. I just… I can’t bear the thought of being a prisoner again.”
“You won’t be,” Yzabel said, Fatyan’s nerves quieting under her touch. As she racked her mind for ideas, what she’d witnessed this morning came back to haunt her with full force. Overworked men, incredibly thin children, the red cloths over windows.
Denis wouldn’t let her give them food, true—but she could give them poultices to help with the red plague. An extra pair of hands to help with the task wouldn’t be unthinkable. “If you want to walk around freely and go unmolested, we can say you’re a young sister from the Carmo Convent, and that the Abbess asked me to train you in the making of herbal medicines. Does that agree with you?”
“I…” Fatyan stepped back, biting into her lower lip as she considered. “I can do that.”
…
As a princess, Yzabel never had the need to share a horse with anyone. When she rode, she did so alone, and proximity wasn’t a common aspect of her life, much less so when riding.
Now, she had Fatyan’s arms around her waist, the Moura’s body pressed against her back. Her breasts were soft, and her arms and hands would sometimes brush against Yzabel’s leg. Touches that were casual yet sent a shiver up her spine and cut her breath short. Not even the chafing of the cilice wrapped around her leg was enough to drown the fleeting sensations creeping along her skin.