Citalli woke in her chamber. It was the third day of Tlacotzin's preparations. She looked across the low table at her sister's bed, adorned with flowers.
Wait—had she slept in a bed?
Until now she had slept propped against the table. She sat up on a mat and stared at her sister's bed. Why had she suddenly done something she had not done in… how many years? A moment later she realized she was doing something else she had not done in years: sitting on her mat instead of the bare floor. She stepped out of the chamber, wondering what was happening to her.
She had risen early and had time before meeting Cuathli, so she began to walk the temple grounds.
Again she was doing something she had not done in years…
A voice addressed her.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," she replied, as a well-bred woman would.
Only then did it strike her: someone had greeted her—and she felt no fear from them. Not the slightest.
What was going on? They called her a demon; everyone feared her; she herself hated… what was it she hated? She missed her sister, but missing would not bring her back.
She stopped dead. She had blamed everyone for her sister's death—including herself. And now she was behaving as if she had accepted it? So suddenly? After so many years? Impossible.
Perhaps it was a dream and her sister was somewhere nearby. She shook her head. She had seen the flowers on the bed. Her sister was gone. What was happening to her?
She looked inward. She could not find the rending grief and hatred. She did feel a need to support Tlacotzin and the girls.
She realized—she was smiling. She turned toward the residence; the day's preparations would soon begin. Suddenly several young attendants and priests blocked her path. If she remembered rightly, they had other duties.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning. How can we help?"
They were fawning. Did they truly have nothing better to do?
"Thank you, but I must assist the chosen one with his preparations."
"So you'll be working with Citalli? Poor thing."
What was that supposed to mean? Wait… they didn't recognize her.
"They say that woman is a demon incarnate."
"I heard flowers wither when she passes."
"And I heard her gaze kills."
She knew the tales they told of her, and until now she had not cared. But suddenly she was furious.
"I can hear you, idiots!"
She let her anger loose. The buffoons collapsed to the pavement before her. She glared.
"If I catch you at it again, I'll have you gelded. Now—TO WORK!"
The men scrambled up and ran.
"Honestly…"
A voice sounded behind her.
"Citalli… is that really you?"
She turned. Cuathli stood there.
"Yes. It's me."
"Your aura… it's gone. What happened?"
Citalli felt dazed.
"I wish I knew."
Before breakfast, the whole temple was buzzing with rumors of Citalli's change.
Preparations continued; they were in meditation in the sacred garden. Tlacotzin tried to focus on the melody he was meant to compose, but nothing came. The girls sat as if upon cactus spines.
The rumor of Citalli's transformation had reached them too. They could not believe it—until they saw Citalli with their own eyes.
It was impossible. For years she had inspired dread; now she seemed… normal.
The transformation unsettled everyone—including Citalli herself. No one knew how it had happened or what could have caused it. It could only be a miracle—or witchcraft.
Tlacotzin, however, had a suspicion. He remembered well the thorns he had seen coiled around Citalli's heart a few days before. Now they were gone. He rejoiced for her—but…
He wished something like that would happen for his own heart of stone.
That evening, in the preparation chamber, he was alone with Cuathli, Citalli, and the attendants. He decided he had to speak.
"You say you saw cords around Itzcoatl's heart—and thorns around Citalli's."
"Yes. But the thorns at Citalli's heart are gone."
Cuathli fell into thought. This was important. Tlacotzin could glimpse the depths of human hearts. It was likely a divine favor.
"Have you ever seen such a thing before?"
"No. Never."
Cuathli pondered more deeply. It must be some blessing, not merely a consequence of being the gods' chosen offering—something exceptional. He could not explain it. Tlacotzin broke his reverie.
"Great servant of Xochipilli—my foster father, Cuathli—I want to ask for something."
"Yes, speak, Tlacotzin."
"I remember Xilonen telling me of her confession upon the techcatl in Tlazolteotl's temple. May I pray? Perhaps Xochipilli will hear me and answer."
"Of course."
When Tlacotzin lay upon the sacrificial stone, he began his prayer.
"O Xochipilli, divine patron of dance, music, and joy—please hear me and grant me counsel, for I am in great distress. You have chosen me as your offering, and I am ready to give you my heart to secure the prosperity of those I love. I know that to die upon your techcatl is my duty to you and to the community—but I long to live, to remain with those I love. When I think on this, sorrow seizes me and my heart grows heavy as a stone. I beg you—give me something to make my heart as light as a flower, that I may offer it to you as a worthy gift. I implore you, Xochipilli, Prince of Flowers—help your chosen one."
As Tlacotzin finished, his gaze went far away. Cuathli understood at once: Tlacotzin had fallen into a vision—just as when Nenetzi had placed his mother's amulet upon him. They waited patiently until it passed, then helped him down from the stone.
"What did you see, Tlacotzin?"
Cuathli listened intently to his account. The vision—and Citalli's transformation. He knew now he must convene the council.