Page 7 of Of Might and Mettle

The creaking increased as boards cracked. Water pooled around Antonio’s feet, even as he dug the oars deeper into the water, his muscles screaming against the force.

His mouth opened to call the guard to hurry up, throw them another rope, anything, but before he could, the hull of the boat pulled apart and Antonio was plunged into the water. The woman’s screams filled the air, and Antonio swam for her, fighting the weight of his own body as his leg dragged him down.

He squinted against the water that blinded him, just catching sight of the woman, before something struck him, pulling him under. The water swallowed him, and darkness was all he knew.

Chapter five

The Porcelain Princess

Lightning lit up Princess Teresa’s room, accompanied by thunder that would have woken her from her sleep—if she hadn’t already been up with the fiery pain that squeezed the air from her lungs. Rain pounded against the window panes, and she wished, for a moment, that she could fling open the windows, that the cool water might soothe the sensation of fire searing her skin. But she knew it wouldn’t.

Eighteen years was not enough to get used to the sensation of burning from the inside out. Maybe it hadn’t been that long . . . just as long as she could remember, and that was bad enough.

She held her breath, for every movement of her skin against the cool silk sheets left a blaze over her, but her lips moved in silent prayer to God.

Lord Jesus . . . I need . . .

She didn’t know what she needed anymore. She’d prayed for healing. For a lessening of her pain. For a discovery of its origin and a medicine that could subdue it. But though none of those had yet come to pass, she still prayed, if only to feel that God was there and that He heard her pleas.

Just help me make it through this moment. Through tonight.

Another flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder louder than the church bells. This one brought a gust of wind that swung her windows open inward. Now the rain came in earnest, pinging against the marble tile.

Though she had just thought of standing under the water to soothe her frayed nerves, she wondered now whether she could wait it out. Wait for the storm to pass, and in the morning, if tomorrow was a good day, clean it up herself.

She could wait, but with the torrential rain not lessening by the second, the puddle would grow. And then it would be a bigger mess to clean in the morning. And she would clean it, even if her lady-in-waiting, Cerise, fought her for the mop.

Slowly, she moved, taking a deep breath to gather her strength. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and carefully let her feet lower to the tile. Pain flared from her soles where they touched the ground.

Counting the seconds, she waited until the pain abated to a dull throb. She stood, and with each careful step, she could feel the coolness of the floor as it really was. She stopped when her toes dipped into the puddle by her window. Silvery moonlight broke through the storm clouds, illuminating the rain streaming into her room like falling stars that extinguished when they hit the ground.

Her nightgown billowed around her ankles, stirred by the wind. She stepped into the rain, her fingers reaching for the curtains on either side of the window to steady her balance. Ice pricked her skin where the rain pelted her, and the fiery sensations soothed as water doused her body.

She dared a smile. She didn’t know how long this sensation would last, this reprieve from the flare-up, but she was glad for the rain in this moment, even if she was cold and soaked and starting to shiver.

With a few movements, she closed the window, latching it shut. The rain pelted the glass again, threatening to break in once more, but she smiled at her handiwork.

She almost wanted to go knock on Yair’s door to let him know she did it herself, what with the pride that swelled in her chest. But even though she knew her brother was awake—he would be reviewing details of her party with Mamá or political dealings with the Empire with Papá—she didn’t want to see the pitying expression on her brother’s face. Not after the last time she’d come to her family in the early hours of the night, four years ago now.

“You’re awake?” Yair had said, his attention snapping up from the documents in his lap.

Mamá’s fingers clenched around the pages of her book. “Is everything all right?”

Teresa had smiled, then winced when the movement pained her. “Sí,” she said. “I brought you the flower for Papá’s tea.” She raised the red flor de jamaica, or hibiscus flower, a special favorite of Mamá’s that she often brewed for tea for Papá’s heart. Earlier that afternoon, Teresa had heard Papá complain of dizziness, so as soon as she got the chance, she’d snuck out to get the flower herself.

Maybe she could make Papá feel better, even if she couldn’t make her own pain lessen.

Instead of the smile Teresa had hoped for, Mamá’s face paled. “On your own? Are you hurt?” She stood.

Teresa shrugged off her concern, raising the flower between them so Mamá might look at it instead of examining her. “Just a scratch from the hedges, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as—”

“Where’s Cerise?” Mamá demanded, her voice rising. She went to the door, calling for Teresa’s lady in waiting. “Cerise!”

“Mamá, don’t be mad!” Teresa begged. “She didn’t know—no sabía! I—” But Mamá was gone down the hall, off to chastise a sleeping Cerise.

A deafening silence fell over the room, and Teresa didn’t know where to look.

She couldn’t bear to look at her brother. To see the pity in his gaze, as he’d carried ever since he’d tried to show her how to climb a tree. It had been exhilarating—before the dreadful moment that she’d fallen. What would have been a minor sprain for Yair had immobilized her for the next week.