We have not gone far when a great crack sounds. I twist in my seat and watch horrified as Elisa’s carriage tips dangerously and one of its wheels tumbles down the mountainside. Guards grab the carriage and strain to keep it from toppling after. A trunk slips its ties and slides off the luggage shelf to bounce down the rocky slope, spilling garments as it goes. I breathe relief when Elisa and Ximena scramble out of the carriage to safety.

The guards work quickly to divest the carriage of its remaining cargo and divvy it up among the packhorses. Still, it’s too long before we’re ready to proceed, and I want to scream with frustration over the delay.

I scoot over on my bench to make room, and Elisa and Ximena climb into my own carriage, which Zito surrounds with a thicket of guards. Most are devout followers of the path of God, and I saw how quick they were to defend her from a potential mob, how quick to grab her carriage and get her to safety. If danger comes to us both, I wonder, would they be more ready to protect their chosen one than their crown princess?

Elisa settles across from me and leans back against the thin cushions. Strands of hair have escaped her braid; they curl around her face, which is damp from sweat. Her plump cheeks are blotched red as apples. Ximena tirelessly fans Elisa with a browned palm leaf. After a while, the dry rustling is like an itch on my brain. I despair of ever being free of the sound.

“Will we be there soon, do you think?” Elisa says wearily.

“I asked Papá to loan us his winged carriage, but it was at the coach wright’s for repairs,” I answer.

“There’s no need to be mean,” Elisa says. “I’m not complaining.” She closes her eyes, turning her sweating face to take the best advantage of Ximena’s fanning. “This blight on the countryside worries me,” she adds. “If we get there early enough, I can spend some time praying for the conde and his bride before we are whisked away for formal appearances. I’ve tried to in the carriage, but it’s just too hot. My Godstone . . .” She opens her eyes and regards me steadily. “You know how it warms when I pray.”

She seems to have an endless supply of subtle and creative ways to remind me that even though I will be queen someday, she is God’s chosen one. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Oh, I know better than to expect you to do anything once we arrive. Just hurry off to pray or rest. Let me handle the business of representing Papá.”

Elisa flinches. Nurse Ximena gives me a sharp look.