Sighing, Brites scratched her hawkish nose. “Then I don’t know. If you were a Caraju like me, I could’ve trained you. We can try soaking you in Terra da Moura’s medicinal springs as well, but I don’t think that’ll make a difference, either.” She squeezed Yzabel once before letting go, and her half-lidded eyes caught on her left hand still bursting with magic, unsated, unrelenting.
Shreds of the afternoon conversation with Senhor Davide kindled an idea into life. “What about the Enchanted Moura? You said she grants wishes. Could she… Do you think she could put an end to this somehow?”
Brites bit the inside of her cheek. “She might, if you can find her.”
Yzabel had nothing to lose by trying.
“Get Vasco,” she said. “We have plans to make.”
…
The curse didn’t dim during her night of fitful sleep, and Yzabel woke to a burning left hand and a boiling tongue. With the sun still slumbering, she held her fingers aloft, noticed how they trembled. Either from her own frailty or the proximity of the Enchanted Moura’s magic, Yzabel could not say.
At her feet, Lucas raised his ears, a question in his whine as he tilted his head at her. She patted him as she sat up, eyes closed to fight the nausea swaying in her throat and the hunger gnawing at her stomach.
She slid out of bed, naked feet stomping on the carpet as she went to wake up Brites in the room next to hers. Brites helped her dress amid yawns, first the white gown she’d need to wear for the Moura, then a commoner’s outfit over it. As they went downstairs, Yzabel fiddled with the rough wool of the skirt’s high waist, felt the embroidery in a red-and-gold jacket over a loose chintz shirt. The thick woolen socks chafed almost as much as the cilice, and tanned hide shoes, old and worn, were two ovens baking her feet despite the cold.
“I’ve packed some bread and chorizo for the day and crumbled some of those honey broas Her Highness likes so much.” Brites handed a cloth-wrapped bundle to a sour-looking Vasco.
“I still don’t like this,” he grumbled. “The Moura’s story is pure fantasy.”
Yzabel made herself meet his stare. “What if it isn’t?”
“It’s not befitting of a princess—”
“I decide what’s befitting of me.” She didn’t mean the accusation in her tone, but it slipped past her like a poisonous snake. “And if there is a Moura, and if she can help, what harm would come of listening to what she has to say?”
Some of the tension lifted from Vasco’s shoulders and his glower softened to a frown. “Even if the tale is true, and we find this creature, what do you think will happen if someone discovers you’ve conspired with a Moor?”
“I’ll be killed if someone finds out about the curse anyway, so we better make sure we don’t get caught.”
“It’s dangerous. I cannot, in my right conscience, allow you to do this.”
This discussion was moot. She so loathed playing the princess card, but sometimes it was the only way. Being confident in front of Vasco had always been difficult because it often meant hurting him, and she hated to see sadness in his eyes.
He’d been willing to look past her curse and protected her the best he could, sought help when Yzabel thought she’d be forever lost. He was more of a papá to her than Pedro had ever been. Which was why she must not let his doubts affect her. Yzabel’s own were already hard enough to deal with.
“How long do you think I have if we don’t solve this problem?”
Vasco made to answer but ended up chewing on his bottom lip.
“Tell. Me. And be honest.”
Remorse darkened his eyes, and at last, he confessed, “Not long. I suspect we would’ve lost you already had we let the medicus bleed you like they wanted.”
To this day, it was hard not to laugh every time she remembered Brites chasing the medicus with a broom, yelling obscenities unfit for anyone’s ears. Humor was not appropriate at this instance, so she held firm, face and eyes of unwavering stone. “Then we agree—if there ever was a time to resort to desperation, it’s long passed us by. I’ll respect your choice to not involve yourself in this, but if you think your absence will deter me, you’re wrong.” She pierced Vasco with a sharp look. “If there’s a chance I can rid myself of this magic, I will find it. With or without you.”
He nodded, the faint beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and turned to her, encased in hesitation, before placing a fatherly kiss atop her head. “I keep forgetting you’re not a child anymore.”
She hated him for the reluctance yet loved him for everything else.
While Vasco left to get the horses, Brites pulled her aside. “Now tell me what you need to do to find the Moura,” she whispered. Her eyes, as dark as the night, assessed her with uncanny fierceness; she wouldn’t let them leave until Yzabel recited the rules without flaw.
She raised a finger, recalling the stories of Enchanted Mouras of her childhood, and said, “Dress only in white, for white is the light that keeps away the darkness of the Moura’s curse.” Another finger unspooled. “Follow her voice when she begins speaking in my head. The birds will sing their warnings, and the earth will shake in fear. These are attempts to deter me. I’m not to listen.” A third finger stood. “And no matter what happens, I must never. Look. Back.”
“If you look back before you reach her, it’ll be as though she’d never been there.” Brites fussed with Yzabel’s hat. “Once you’re within her range, you have one chance. Do not waste it.”
“I won’t.”
Vasco left the stables with two horses in tow. Lucas, who had been grouchy the entire night as if he’d sensed her imminent departure, bumped his head against her skirts and whined. It seemed like only yesterday he’d been a puppy, rejected by his mother and left to perish in the cold, until Yzabel saved him. She knelt on the cobblestones to put her arms around Lucas’s neck. He stunk of dog and his fur was damp from the morning mists—she held him tight, nonetheless. “I’ll come back soon.” A peck on his nose. “Be good to Brites.”
Yzabel rose to her feet and stepped into Brites’s open arms. “Good luck, little princess,” she whispered and kissed her cheek. “And remember—”
“Don’t look back.”
Chapter Four
The Deepest Wish
Under October’s heavy rains, Yzabel spent her time atop the horse shivering as she went over the set of rules to finding the Moura. Impossible not to imagine Brites’s voice as she recounted them in her head, and a grimace twisted her lips. She wished her lady’s maid had been able to come, but someone needed to stay back and tell everyone the princess had run out of herbs for her medicines and would spend the day resupplying her stock. If Denis became testy, Brites was one of the few people who could keep him from chasing after Yzabel.