This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Mara Fitzgerald
Jacket art copyright © 2020 by I Love Dust. Jacket copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: October 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fitzgerald, Mara, author.
Title: Beyond the ruby veil / Mara Fitzgerald.
Description: First edition. | New York : Hyperion, 2020. | Series: Beyond the ruby veil ; 1 | Audience: Ages 12 and up. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: “After Emanuela Ragno kills the one person in Occhia who can create water, she must find a way to save her city from dying of thirst”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020017687 (print) | LCCN 2020017688 (ebook) | ISBN 9781368052139 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781368053662 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F5732 Bey 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.F5732 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017687
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017688
ISBNs: 978-1-368-05213-9 (hardcover), 978-1-368-05366-2 (ebook)
E3-20200916-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
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ONE
I’VE FINALLY BROKEN HER. TODAY REALLY IS MY SPECIAL DAY.
My nursemaid brought it on herself, of course. If she’d had any sense, she’d have gotten rid of me when I was a helpless infant who couldn’t fight back. Instead, the poor sap tended to me, letting me grow and flourish and outmatch her. That’s why she’s standing in the middle of my bedroom, clutching at her face, realizing that she’s never going to bludgeon me into the shape of a docile young lady and that she’s wasted her life trying.
“It’s hideous, Paola,” I inform her as I tear the silk rose in my hands to pieces. “I’m doing us all a favor.”
“Emanuela Ragno.” She barely breathes my name, like the words are cursed. “This gown has been in your mamma’s family for over a hundred years.”
“Yes, and it looks it,” I say. “Smells it, too. Did you really think I was going to walk down the aisle in some musty pile of lace?”
“Musty pile of lace?” she echoes in disbelief. “Musty pile of—So help me, Emanuela, if there’s one day you should wear a musty pile of lace, it’s your wedding day!”
There’s no time I should ever wear this monstrosity. The black skirts are so heavy I can barely move. The sleeves are enormous and puffy. The train stretches out of my bedroom and into the hall. The first time I laid eyes on the gown, I told my mamma it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. She sighed and opined about how it’s been passed down on her side, the House of Rosa, for generations—hence the red silk roses tastelessly stuck to every surface. She rhapsodized about my spiritual connection to the women of our family and how wonderful it would be to see me in traditional clothing, for once. Occhian people love tradition. They love doing the exact same things every other person has done since the city began.
I tried the gown on. I didn’t feel a spiritual connection to the women of my family. I felt like a little girl buried in hideous fabric. I also felt itchy, due to the gigantic silk rose smack in the middle of my chest. But I agreed to wear the gown, and my mamma shed a few tears, and we carried on as usual.
Then I bided my time until this very moment. Just as my nursemaid was putting the finishing touches on my outfit, I grabbed the offending rose and ripped it off. Now the fragile silk of my bodice is a ragged mess.
And just down the street, the cathedral bells are ringing. Everyone in the city is already inside, waiting for me, but I’m here, and Paola is in front of me, spiraling into hysterics.
“Your mamma got married in this!” she says. “And her mamma, and her mamma’s mamma—you’re her only daughter, and she’s spent her whole life praying that she would live to see you married, and you just—”
“Calm down, old woman,” I say, tearing another petal off the rose and dropping it onto the very satisfying pile at my feet. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Calm down?” she screeches. “We’re—”
“Late to the wedding? Then why are we just standing around?”
“Because there’s a—”
“A massive hole in my bodice?” I say. “This is an improvement. Look how flattering my corset is.”
Paola leaps to block the doorway, fists clenched. “Emanuela, don’t you dare—I suppose you think you can talk me into this, just like you talked me into the gown with the slit. Not this time, young lady. Weddings are sacred, and you are not parading in front of the whole city with your fruits on display like—”
“Oh?” I drop the last of the rose onto the carpet. “How are you going to stop me?”
We stare each other down. Paola’s nostrils are flaring and her dark eyes are burning. On paper, she’s a servant, and I’m the first and only daughter of the House of Ragno. I could be rid of her with a few choice words to my papá. But I have my reasons for keeping her around, and she knows it, and every so often, we have moments like this—moments where I briefly, genuinely wonder which one of us will crack first.
She unclenches her fists. “All right, you little devil. Just tell me what your scheme is.”
Paola is always the one who cracks. Just like everyone else.
I pick up my skirts and cross the room to my wardrobe.
“I should’ve known,” Paola says to my back. “You haven’t given me a moment’s peace in seventeen years, so why start today? Why have mercy on an old woman for once in her miserable life? Do you know, I still remember when they first put you in my arms.…”
This is the hundredth time I’ve heard this
story.
“You were so small,” she rambles on. “And so quiet. And for half a second, I thought you were a peaceful angel. But then you looked at me with those black eyes, and I swear, I heard a voice in my head say, Hello. I’m going to ruin you. And you opened your mouth and spewed all over my—”
“I remember it fondly, too,” I say, reaching into the back of the wardrobe. “But enough about how I’m the only good thing that’s ever happened to you—look what I just found. Another black gown just happens to be sitting around in here, begging to be worn. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Of course it’s beautiful. I designed it, and I spent months secretly stitching it to perfection. My creation is made of flowing black silk, with a tasteful rose pattern winding its way up the skirt. It has lace sleeves that look like spiderwebs and a scandalously low neckline, and when I walk down the aisle in it, the people of my city aren’t going to see every other Rosa woman who came before. They’re going to see me.
Outside, the peal of the cathedral bells dies off. I’m officially late. When I turn around, Paola is still across the room. She’s folded her hands over her plain gray apron, and her eyes are searching me in a way I don’t particularly like.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she says.
“Paola, I have the best fashion sense in the city,” I say. “Everything I wear is a good idea.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she says, quieter.
I know it’s not what she means.
Paola glances at the bedroom door, even though we both know the rest of the house has already emptied out.
“You don’t have to have a ceremony in front of God and—and everyone,” she says. “The marriage will still be real if it’s done in private—if you just asked Alessandro, he would be more than happy to—”
“No,” I say, sharply.
I’m not going to let her talk me out of this now. Not when I spent all of last night talking myself into it.
Paola presses her mouth into a thin line. She knows the discussion is over, but she waits, like she’s hoping otherwise. I hold my ground until she gives in and unfolds her hands. No one can withstand my forbidding stare for long.
“Well, then,” Paola says, all familiar exasperation again. “Let’s find out just how unholy this creation of yours is.”
She wrestles me out of the old and into the new. Even with the unwieldy lace skirts and my excessive layers of underthings, it’s a quick transformation. I know exactly how to shift and wiggle, and she knows my body better than her own. When we’re willing to cooperate, my nursemaid and I are the most efficient team in Occhia.
Paola does up the last button and peers over my shoulder at the two of us in the mirror. She makes a small noise of disbelief. “God help your husband. That boy isn’t ready.”
I tug down my neckline. “He never will be. One final touch.”
“Oh no,” she says.
I open the drawer of my dressing table and fetch a tub of scarlet rouge from the back. Paola turns white as I brush it onto my cheeks.
“You are the daughter of a duke, you know,” she says. “Surely some part of you understands that this wedding is about the joining of two families and not how good you—God and all his saints—”
I’ve moved on to dusting the rouge between my breasts. Paola grabs the brush out of my hands.
“Are you quite done?” she says.
I’m never done.
It’s a short walk to the cathedral. The cobblestone road has been lined with rose petals, but the windows of the black manors are dark and silent. After the ceremony, we’ll parade back this way to my husband’s house, where there’ll be a ten-course meal and an outrageous number of toasts, but right now, the people are waiting in the pews, praying. In Occhia, nothing is more momentous than a wedding. Everyone will be here, dressed in their finest and bearing handcrafted gifts. People I’ve never met are going to cry. The fact that my husband and I both made it to our wedding day is a blessing for us, and our families, and the city.
To that end, I’m supposed to spend this walk solemnly and reflect with gratitude. But I don’t have the time. I pick up my skirts and march, and Paola makes a harassed noise, trotting to catch up. The towering black cathedral is waiting for us at the heart of Occhia. I crane my neck to look up at one of its enormous spires and past that to the veil overhead. And for a moment, I hesitate.
The veil is glowing a deep, rich red, like it does every day when evening is gathering. When I was a child, I asked a lot of questions about the veil. I wanted to know what it’s made of. I wanted to know why it turns red in the day and black at night. I wanted to know what’s inside it. Everybody had the same answer for everything—God. A thousand years ago, God created our little city. Then he created the first Occhians. He pulled their souls out of the veil and dropped them here, and they brought Occhia to life, claiming the manors and starting Houses that have stayed the same for centuries.
When we die, our souls go back to the veil. Everyone tells me that like it’s as matter-of-fact as breathing and eating. No one seems bothered by the knowledge that we’re encased by a mysterious entity that could swallow us up at any moment. They say that the important thing is that we spend the time we’re given dedicated to our family and our traditions.
I… don’t ask questions anymore.
We slip into the cathedral through a side entrance, where Padre Busto is waiting, looking impatient and dour. Padre Busto had the privilege of counseling me in preparation for my marriage. He loved every second of it.
“Good evening, Donna Emanuela.” He dips his head politely, but his eyes linger on my gown. “I’m glad to see you took ample time to reflect on your walk over. My blessings on this most… holy of days. It is sure to be a… beautiful ceremony.”
The judgmental pauses are not lost on me.
“Thank you, Padre,” I say, curtsying. “You’ll be baptizing our first child before you know it. My family is known for our vigorous wombs.”
“For God’s sake, Emanuela,” Paola mutters, then remembers she’s in God’s house and cups her hands in apologetic prayer.
Padre Busto gives me the look of polite hatred he gives me whenever I speak crassly of my womb. I’m supposed talk about it with reverence, but if it wants to be respected, it shouldn’t cramp and revolt the way it did last week.
“When you’re ready, we’ll move to the prayer room,” he says, extending a very reluctant arm.
Paola starts to walk away. But then she doubles back and, faster than a blink, kisses me on the cheek.
“I know it’s time for you to become a lady and leave your old nursemaid behind,” she whispers. “But—”
“Yes, yes, I turned out wonderful in spite of you,” I say. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Paola.”
I talk over her before I can hear the end, because suddenly, I don’t want to hear the end. I pull away and take Padre Busto’s arm. As he leads me off, I tell myself not to look back. At the last second, I do. Paola is disappearing around the corner. Her hands are folded tightly over her apron and her head is bent toward the floor.
She’s nervous.
She has nothing to be nervous about. We have nothing to be nervous about.
The priest wordlessly brings me to the prayer room. I step inside, and he shuts the door at my back, leaving me in a tiny, dim space hazy with perfume. In front of me is a small altar smothered in burning candles. A copy of the Holy Book sits in the middle, its golden-edged pages already open to the appropriate passages. I kneel down in front of it with a creak.
Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. I’ve been fine for seventeen years, and I’ll be fine today.
I dip my fingers into the tiny glass bowl of sacred water. I’m supposed to take the smallest drop imaginable, but instead, I take several and use them to wet down the few loose hairs curling around my face. Then I turn to the gold screen at my side and attempt to peer through the tiny round holes. Now that I’ve solemnly reflected
alone, I’m supposed to solemnly reflect with my husband-to-be. We’re meant to slog through pages and pages of prayers about our undying devotion to each other and our commitment to spawning as many small, pious Occhians as we can. The screen, of course, is to keep us from spawning any small Occhians before the ceremony is done. I rap on it.
“Alessandro, your wife is here,” I call. “Stop picking your nose and show some respect.”
There’s a startled thump on the other side.
“I’m not—” My future husband sputters. “Did you have to say that so loudly? What if the priests are listening?”
“You really should’ve thought of that before you blasphemed all over our meeting,” I say.
“I’m not blaspheming on anything,” he insists, taking my words very personally, as usual. “I was… Well, if you must know, I was praying. Like we’re supposed to.”
“How adorable,” I say. “You were asking God how you can someday be worthy of me, I assume?”
“I… suppose you could think of it that way. I was just—”
“Don’t bother.” I idly flip the tissue-thin pages of the Holy Book. “I’m beyond all human reach. Especially in my new gown. And even if you’ll never thirst for me the way you thirst for Manfredo Campana—”
He sputters again. “I don’t—”
“—I hope you can at least appreciate the fact that you have the most magnificent girl in Occhia on your arm.”
For a moment, there’s nothing on Ale’s side but flustered silence.
“I don’t thirst for Manfredo,” he says finally. “I admire him. You make everything sound so unromantic.”
“Ah, yes, forgive me for daring to presume I know better than you, the master of romantic gestures,” I say. “Every great love story begins with a boy stealing the used handkerchief another boy left on the card table.”
Ale goes deathly quiet. The stealing in question happened two nights ago at a dinner party. He thought I didn’t see him. But we’re best friends. I always see.
“I meant to give it back,” he says feebly. “But Manfredo was talking to all the boys from his calcio club, and they’re so intimidating—”
Beyond the Ruby Veil Page 1