The Young Gods (The Young Gods #1) [NEW DRAFT]

•capítulo once // chapter eleven•

Sometimes, when the setting sun hits the farmlands of Covigo just right, it looks like a vast, rippling ocean. The swaying crops are waves. The hum of insects is actually the perpetual sound of the water, moving with the wind and the tides. That bank of trees is the cresting tail of a whale. That hill, far in the distance, is an island.

That's what Rosa tells herself, at least.

She images that her balcony is a boat- that she's leaning against the bow of a grand ship that pirates from almost two centuries ago used to sail- and that the salty sea brine is whipping her in the face. She clutches tightly to the balcony rail, closing her eyes. For a moment, she can taste it. She can feel it. She's there, really there, on the water.

"Will you miss this place?"

Rosa starts, hands jerking away from the rail. Her heart thuds in her chest; she clutches the skin above it, catching her breath right before it runs away from her.

She curtsies, head still spinning. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn't know you were behind me."

King Miguel holds up a hand. He's dressed plainly, in a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a button-up shirt, looking more like a young nobleman than a king. "Don't be so formal with me, Rosalinda." He gestures to the rail. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Rosa gulps. "Not at all."

He gives her a small smile and moves to stand beside her at the balcony. He leans over it, back hunching slightly, looking out over the crops that stretch as far as the eye can see.

"I hope I didn't startle you too badly," he says after a while.

"I'm fine, Your Majesty."

"Rosalinda," he prompts.

Her cheeks heat. "What would you like me to call you?"

His green eyes twinkle. "Miguel will do."

"Miguel." She says it quietly to herself, even if it doesn't taste right on her tongue. "Were you hoping for a moment to yourself?"

His head tilts up to savour the breeze. "I was looking for you."

"Why?"

"I thought we might speak."

Her inquiry is soft. "Speak of what?"

"Anything," he replies. "You're... scared of me, aren't you?"

"Not at all."

"I'm not sure if I believe that. You avoid me at mealtimes. Your sisters make more conversation than you do." He leans in, peering at her like she's a curious insect that he might have to step on. "You're not selectively mute, are you?"

She takes a step back. "I'm sorry."

He observes her for a quiet moment before coming closer. The breeze ruffles his clothes and hair. When Rosa takes in a sharp breath, she gets a lungful of his scent: soap and mint. He smells as mild as he looks at first glance.

But Rosa knows better. She can't forget the hunger in his gaze.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he tells her. "I'm not an old lech. I won't force you to do anything you don't want. This..." He pulls at his collar, smiling like a schoolboy. "This arrangement terrifies me, too."

Rosa stares up at him. She's seen portraits of his mother, the late Queen Letizia. The gentle curve of his brow is hers, along with those twinkling green eyes. "Why did you propose it?" she asks.

"Should I put it simply for you?"

She nods.

"The crown is bankrupt."