Beyond the Ruby Veil

by Mara Fitzgerald

  “Don’t tell me I’m going to step into your bedroom and find it covered in Manfredo’s snotty handkerchiefs,” I say. “My fragile constitution can’t take it.”

  “It’s not about the snot, Emanuela—there was a cologne smell on it. I just like the…” His voice is rapidly dwindling. “Never mind.”

  Alessandro Morandi and I were betrothed seventeen years ago, when we had just emerged from our respective mothers’ wombs. No one asked us how we felt about the matter, because that’s not what our marriage is about. Our marriage is about the fact that we can make the heirs the House of Morandi needs. That’s why, in accordance with tradition, we put this day off until my first bleeding arrived.

  My first bleeding took quite a while. Some of my peers were married at thirteen. Everyone wants as much time as they can get, because after all, the oldest Occhian in history lived to fifty before her first omen appeared. Most people don’t even come close to that.

  Ale and I may be arriving to the altar late—late enough that it’s inspired gossip—but we’ve arrived. In just a few minutes, I’ll be a duchess with some actual power, and everyone is going to see what I can do with it. And then they’re going to regret their gossiping.

  “Did you actually make a new gown?” Ale says. “Of course you did. Is it decent?”

  “That depends on your definition of decent,” I say, taking a moment to admire what little cleavage I have. It’s vastly improved by the rouge.

  “Oh no,” he whispers.

  “Oh yes,” I say.

  He’s quiet for a moment.

  “Are you nervous?” he says. “At all?”

  I realize I’m smoothing down my silk skirts, over and over. Even though he can’t see me, I jerk my hands back to the altar.

  “What could I possibly be nervous about?” I say.

  “Everybody in the city staring at us. Everybody. What if I trip, or forget the prayers, or vomit like I did during First Rites, or—never mind.” He sighs. “You don’t get nervous.”

  “Are you really nervous about everybody staring at you?” I say. “You need to get used to the jealous looks, Signor Morandi, grand duke of Occhia. They’re not going anywhere.”

  He makes an uncomfortable noise. In Ale’s ideal life, he sits in his room all day reading novels about other people’s feelings and drama and convoluted webs of romance. In his actual life, he’s about to become the head of the wealthiest house in Occhia, and he’ll be expected to lead Parliament and talk to a lot of people and make a lot of decisions. That’s why we’re a perfect match. I’m good at making decisions, and he’s good at following me.

  From the heart of the cathedral, the organ starts blaring. The priests knock on both of our doors at the same time. Ale groans, and his kneeler squeaks as he stands.

  “Ale, wait.” I press my hand against the cold screen between us.

  “You’re planning something, aren’t you?” he says in a panic. “I knew it. Please don’t be rude to the priest in front of everyone. Please don’t make jokes during the vows. I can’t, Emanuela. I can’t. Not today—”

  “Kneel back down,” I say.

  “But the priests are—”

  “They can wait.”

  He kneels back down. When I lean closer, I can feel his apprehension seeping through the barrier between us.

  “All you have to do is stand there,” I say softly. “Don’t think about the other people in the cathedral. They don’t matter. If you get too nervous, just take my hand. Nothing is going to happen to you.” I consider. “And if you do vomit, I’ll take all my clothes off, and then no one will be able to talk about anything but me.”

  He sighs. He rests his head on the screen, and little tufts of his dark hair poke through.

  “All I have to do is stand there,” he says, mostly to himself. “You’re right. I can do that. I can do that—”

  He pulls away.

  The next time we’re alone, we’ll be husband and wife. I promised myself I’d tell him the truth before we were husband and wife. And even though I knew exactly how my wedding would play out, it still feels like this part has snuck up on me.

  “Ale—” I say.

  “What?” he says. He sounds much calmer than he did moments ago. He sounds like he’s almost ready for what’s about to happen. I have that effect on him.

  This morning, I woke up so early that the veil was still black. I crept onto my balcony and leaned on the iron railing, shivering in the chilly air, and I looked down the street to the grand House of Morandi. I found Ale’s bedroom window, at the very top. The candle on the sill was dark, of course. Every night, he lights his, and I light mine. He sits in his room reading, and I sit in mine scheming and sewing, and when we go to bed, we blow them out. I realized that after today, we won’t need that little ritual anymore, because we’ll be together. I imagined a life married to some other Occhian boy who would see me as a means to an end, not as his friend, and I was certain I was the luckiest girl in the city.

  I have to tell him now. He’ll understand.

  I open my mouth. “I—”

  Or maybe I don’t. It’s not like anything is going to happen. We have nothing to be nervous about.

  “I was going to remind you not to lock your knees when you’re standing at the altar,” I say. “If you’re going to faint, let it be because you’re overwhelmed by my beauty.”

  “Don’t lock my knees,” he repeats. “Don’t lock my knees—There’s so much to remember—”

  He disappears, and I wait in the heavy, perfumed silence. When Padre Busto opens my door, I flinch.

  My papá is waiting for me at the front of the cathedral, poised in front of the enormous double doors that lead to the inner chamber. He’s in his usual crisp black suit, and the crests of our family are pinned to his chest—a small golden rose, for the House of Rosa, and a golden spiderweb, for the House of Ragno. When he sees me, he raises his eyebrows.

  “What are you wearing, my little spider?” he says.

  “Not the old rag Mamma gave me,” I say. “That’s for certain.”

  Everybody says I look just like my mamma, because we have the same shiny dark hair and the same sharp features. But Paola insists the Papá in me overshadows everything else. She claims we have the same look in our eyes. It says, I get what I want, and I don’t care what it takes.

  “How clever of you,” my papá says, taking my arm. “Nobody ever remembers the people in these ceremonies. They all look the same.”

  Our family has lived in the same manor, passing down the same low-level seat in Parliament, since the city began. But now, we have my papá. When I was a day old, he planted himself in the parlor of the richest house in Occhia and refused to leave until they betrothed their newborn son to his newborn daughter. He spent the next seventeen years preparing me—not to be a spouse, but to be the head of a household and the head of our government. My mamma doesn’t understand me. She wants me to dress like her and have babies like her and spend my life quietly tending to a home. My papá wants me to have more than any other Ragno has ever had.

  And I will. I’m going to walk down the aisle in front of everybody—everybody—in the whole city and get the life I deserve. I’m not afraid. I have nothing to hide.

  My papá pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out. It’s a golden spiderweb pin that matches the one on his chest.

  “You’re a Ragno,” he says. “Make sure they remember that, too.”

  In spite of myself, I hesitate. I planned the rose embroidery on my skirts and the spiderweb lace on my sleeves for a reason. I want to tell people who I am in my own way.

  But of course I’ll make an exception for my papá. We’re a team. I take the pin.

  Just as I finish attaching it to my chest, the doors to the inner chamber of the cathedral swing open. And for a split second, I wonder if this was really a good idea. For a split second, I’m wishing I was still hidden in the prayer room. But it’s too late to change my mind now.

>   The organ music hits me like a wall of sound. The pews squeal as everybody in Occhia leaps to their feet. As my papá guides me forward, I suddenly appreciate how massive this place is. It’s pew after pew and arch after arch and column after column, and they all converge on the golden altar in the distance, where Ale is nothing but a dark smudge in the candlelight.

  I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead as we parade past the masses. I can tell when we reach the pews where the noble families sit, because I nearly choke on the mass of perfumes. The whispering gets louder, too. Everyone is either delighted or horrified by my dress. Either one is fine with me.

  My feet have grown sweaty in their silk slippers by the time we pass my family. I don’t look over, but I can hear Paola trying to shush my demon little brothers and my army of tiny cousins. We pass a row of stoic guards, their red coats barely visible at the edges of my vision. And all by herself, in the very first pew, is the only person who didn’t stand for me.

  The watercrea.

  I’ve seen the watercrea from a distance before. I don’t have to look to know that she has startlingly white skin and sleek dark hair, and she always wears a brilliant red gown. She looks only a little older than me, but she’s looked that way since the city began.

  God made Occhia and everyone in it, but there’s one thing even he can’t make—water. The watercrea is the only person with the power to do that. Her magic lets her control blood and turn it into water, and for a thousand years, she’s been using it to keep us alive.

  The watercrea takes her blood from our people. Once their first omen appears, they give themselves to her, and she locks them in her tower and slowly, carefully drains their blood into our underground well. In a matter of hours, they’re gone.

  I don’t even bother to look at her as I pass by. Today isn’t about her and her tower and her prisoners with omens. It’s about me.

  Ale is standing at the center of the altar, fidgeting erratically. His willowy mamma is at his side, watching me approach with a wavering mouth and dread in her eyes. As my papá kisses my cheek and deposits me next to Ale, two delicious, crystalline tears run down her cheeks.

  I spend every day with Ale, but I’m always a little bit alarmed by how tall and gangly he’s become in the last couple of years. Ale has his mamma’s pale skin and graceful features. He could be handsome if he tried, but he’s too busy being gawky and utterly embarrassed by his own existence. Right now, his enormous brown eyes are taking in the crowd, and his panic is slowly growing—as if anyone is really staring at him when they have the option to stare at me. I reach over and take his hand, pointedly pulling him closer. His fingers are trembling and clammy, so maybe he won’t notice that mine are, too.

  The organ stops, and in the ringing silence, we turn around to face the priest. Somebody in the crowd coughs softly, and it echoes in the cavernous space. A pew creaks. Ale’s mamma sniffles. Then the priest starts to sing, and his opening prayer drowns it all out.

  I sneak another glance at Ale. The traditional black jacket of the House of Morandi, embroidered with gold thread and green ivy leaves, looks wide on his thin frame. His head is bent in pious concentration, but I can still feel him shaking. I squeeze his hand, and he gives me a slow sideways look and squeezes back.

  Tonight, after the celebration, we’ll retire to our bedroom in his family’s house, officially allowed to be alone for the first time. I know exactly what’s going to happen. We’re going to eat chocolates and open our wedding gifts and gossip about the silly things people did at our reception. He’s going to fall asleep with a book in his lap, and I’m going to stay awake and plan everything for us, because tomorrow, it all truly begins.

  I knew everything would be fine. This is my life. Nobody controls it except for me.

  Then the priest stops in the middle of his prayer.

  I lift my head. The priest’s wide eyes are fixed on something over my shoulder. Slowly, I realize that a strange hush has fallen over the crowd. No one is coughing. No one is shifting in the pews. Even Ale’s mamma has stopped sniffling, and when I turn around, I see why.

  The watercrea has left her pew. She’s standing in the middle of the aisle, and her eyes are on me.

  TWO

  WHEN THE WATERCREA STANDS, EVERYONE ELSE BOWS.

  They don’t use the kneelers in the pews, because those are for praying to God, and God can’t do what the watercrea does. Everybody in the cathedral drops to the stone floor. They disappear behind the pews, and abruptly, it looks like the building is empty.

  For a moment, I’m mesmerized. With one move, the woman in the red gown has the entire city at her feet.

  It must be nice.

  I’m vaguely aware that Ale is already on his knees, tugging on my hand, and that the watercrea is gliding toward us. She stops a few paces away. In the shadows of the candlelight, her face is unreadable.

  There’s a distant little voice in my head, and it’s screaming at me that I’m the only one still standing. I should kneel. I should run. I should do something. Anything.

  The watercrea lifts a pale hand and beckons over her shoulder, and one of her guards crawls out of his pew and runs forward.

  “The bride,” the watercrea says in a soft voice.

  It feels inevitable. It feels like I’ve been holding a fine crystal glass that’s slipped out of my fingers, and all I can do is watch it fall and wait for the explosion of shards.

  The guard walks toward me. In his outstretched hand is something small and glinting, and when I realize it’s a knife, I take a clumsy step back. Ale’s grip on my hand tightens. But the guard stops an arm’s length away, and for a long moment, he just stares at me. His face is expectant.

  He’s waiting for me to confess, I realize dimly. At this point, in front of God and everyone, any other Occhian would confess.

  I lift my chin and regard him with disdain.

  He lunges forward. He grabs my arm and yanks me away from Ale.

  Obviously, I know how this is supposed to go. I’m Emanuela Ragno, and this is my wedding day. If a guard dares to interrupt and pull me around like he owns me, he regrets it.

  It’s just that I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that he actually came after me. I can’t comprehend his hands, heavy and foreign, on my arm. On my shoulders.

  I can’t let this happen. I have to do something.

  The cold knife touches my back. It shocks me into action, and I leap away.

  Or I try to.

  But everything… stops. My legs stop. My arms stop. I don’t know what’s happening to me. All I know is that I’m desperate for my body to move, and it’s not going anywhere. I try to scream, but my throat is squeezed shut.

  Then my eyes focus on the woman in front of me.

  It’s the watercrea. She’s using her magic on me. She’s taken control of my blood.

  Something is roaring in my ears, but over the noise, I hear the snick of the guard’s knife cutting into my gown and my corset. He starts to wrestle them off.

  I try to look away from the watercrea, but I can’t. She’s even taken control of my eyes.

  I hear my clothes hitting the floor. I feel the cold air on my skin, and then the guard is cutting off my underpants. They fall away, and nearby, Ale’s mamma stifles a gasp. I know exactly what she’s seeing. I know what they’re all seeing.

  The mark on my hip doesn’t look like much. It’s just a small red smudge. But to the people of Occhia, it’s everything.

  “Quickly,” the watercrea says. “Before it spreads.”

  No. It’s not going to spread. They have to let me go. They have to let me explain.

  The guard slides off the gold engagement ring I’ve been wearing since I could fit it on my finger. He tries to pull the crown of roses from my head, but Paola pinned it within an inch of her life, and it doesn’t budge. A moment later, I feel his knife sawing through my hair, and clumps are ghosting down my back.

  He’s ruining my hair. He’s not allowed to do
that.

  And then my feet aren’t on the floor anymore. They slide out of my silk slippers as I hover a breath above the carpet, and I’m gliding down the aisle toward the watercrea.

  They say the watercrea’s power comes from her eyes. As I feel myself drift past her and continue toward the back of the cathedral, I know her gaze is following me.

  It feels like nobody in this whole huge room is breathing. I’m not sure if I’m breathing. I can’t see Ale or my family and I can’t blink and all I know is that everything is happening too quickly and too quietly.

  It’s not like I haven’t had nightmares about this. But the nightmares were different. In the nightmares, I could talk. I could fight. I was dragged to the tower kicking and screaming, defiant and alive.

  But I’m already at the double doors of the cathedral. There are guards on either side of me, pushing them open, and we’re descending into the night.

  The veil overhead is inky black. The guards swarm around me with glowing red lanterns, their boots heavy on the cobblestone, and I just keep gliding along against my will. We round the corner of the cathedral, and when we reach the back, the watercrea’s tower is there, waiting. Its spike of a roof looks like it’s about to poke right through the veil. It’s the only building in Occhia that’s taller than the cathedral.

  I’ve never been this close to it. The closer we get, the less real the black stone walls look.

  This is where people with omens on their skin go. This is where people with omens die. I know that.

  But not me. They’re not just going to put me in here. Not on my wedding day. They can’t pull me from the altar and leave a pile of ruined clothes where I used to be. The whole city gathered there for me. They want me there. They need me there.

  The inside of the tower is pitch-black and quiet, and the heavy, sweet smell in the air fills up the back of my throat. Blood. The blood of dying people. I know the watercrea is somewhere behind me, because I’m floating up the narrow spiral stairs. We pass a hole in the wall, then another, then another, then so many I lose track. They all have bars over them.