Why is she not the one getting married today?

When he sees me, the kitchen master grins beneath a flour-dusted mustache and shoves a plate at me. The pastry on it is flaky and golden, dusted with ground pistachios and glazed with honey. My mouth waters. I tell him I’ll need two.

I settle next to Alodia, avoiding the hanging brassware near my head. She eyes my plate with distaste. She doesn’t roll her eyes at me, but I feel like she does, and I glare at her. “Elisa . . . ,” she begins, but she doesn’t know what to say, and I make a point of ignoring her by shoving the flaky crust into my mouth. My headache lessens almost immediately.

My sister hates me. I’ve known it for years. Nurse Ximena says it’s because I was chosen by God for an act of service and Juana-Alodia was not. God should have chosen her; she is athletic and sensible, elegant and strong. Better than two sons, Papá says. I study her as I chew my pastry, her shining black hair and chiseled cheeks, the arched eyebrows that frame confident eyes. I hate her right back.

When Papá dies, she will be queen of Orovalle. She wants to rule and I do not, so it is ironic that by marrying King Alejandro, I will be queen of a country twice as large, twice as rich. I don’t know why I am the one marrying. Surely Joya d’Arena’s king would have chosen the beautiful daughter, the queenly one. My mouth freezes, midchew, as I realize that he probably did.

I am the counteroffer.

Tears threaten again, and I clench my jaw until my face aches, because I’d rather be trampled by horses than cry in front of my sister. I imagine what they said to make him agree to this match. She was chosen for service. No, no, nothing has happened yet, but soon, we are certain. Yes, she is fluent in the Lengua Classica. No, not beautiful, but she is clever. The servants love her. And she embroiders a lovely horse.

He would have heard truer things by now. He will know that I am easily bored, that my dresses grow larger with every fitting, that I sweat like a beast during the desert summer. I pray we can be a match in some strange way. Maybe he had the pox when he was young. Maybe he can barely walk. I want a reason not to care when he turns away in disgust.

Alodia has finished her bread. She stands and stretches, flaunting her grace and her length. She gives me a strange look—I suspect it’s pity—and says, “Let me know if . . . if you need any help today. Getting ready.” And she hurries away before I can answer.

I take the second pastry. It doesn’t taste like anything anymore, but it’s something to do.