She turned her head and saw Hun-Kamé sitting by her bed in a chair. Casiopea pushed herself up on her elbows. Her throat was parched and she struggled to find her tongue.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You fell asleep,” he replied simply.
“At the shop?”
“Of course.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Seven hours, as promised. Night has fallen.”
He had tucked her under the covers and Casiopea attempted to shove them away so she could stand and take a look out the window, as if to confirm this fact, but as soon as she pulled the covers and made to move, a shiver went through her body.
“Wait,” he said, stilling her, his hand on her shoulder. “Do you need anything?”
“Water,” she croaked.
He returned with a glass, pressing it into her hands as he sat down on the bed. Casiopea drank it. It hurt going down her throat, but she was very thirsty. She gave him back the glass, and he set it aside on the night table. Casiopea rubbed her wrists, almost expecting to find gashes along them, but the only thing adorning them was her silver bracelet.
“Was your dream unpleasant?” he asked.
“I…I dreamed of Xibalba,” she said. She did not speak of the blood, nor the road that turned red, superstitious fear holding her tongue, as if by describing this incident she might bring misfortune to herself—and her luck, it was black! Somehow she identified the dream as a portent, and her heart knew not to tempt fate by solidifying it with words. He must have sensed this too; instinct made him frown, an uncomfortable silence extending between them
“Did you get what you needed from the witch?” she asked, wishing to dissipate the fear that clung to her body.
“Indeed. I have the Uay Chivo’s address and the assurance that he keeps what I seek in his studio, behind a safe with three locks.”
“But you can open the locks.”
“Yes.”
“Do we go now then?” she asked, already squaring her shoulders.
“Why don’t you rest?” he replied.
“I slept for hours,” she protested.
“But you did not rest.”
“I say we go now.”
She made a motion as if to stand up, but he shook his head, his hand bidding her to halt in her efforts.
“He will be there tomorrow, no need to leave tonight,” he told her.
“Tomorrow I might be dead,” she countered, unable to conceal the edge of panic on which she danced. The dream had brought with it the whiff of the grave, the undeniable reminder that the sands of her life were being spent, that she needed to dislodge the bone shard.
“Not tomorrow,” he assured her.
“Would you even tell me if it was tomorrow?” she asked. “Or would you keep quiet?”
“I have not lied to you. Why should I deceive you now?”
“You didn’t tell me all. You didn’t say your brother means to rule and have offerings brought to him and…and all that.”
“I might have said it sooner, but I’ve said it now. You can trust me.”
