Beyond the Ruby Veil

by Mara Fitzgerald

  Finally, we slow to a stop. A guard opens the door of the nearest cell with a creak, and I feel myself climbing obediently into the dark, even as everything inside me screams in protest. It’s barely big enough to hold me, but I turn around and lie down on my back on the freezing stone. The shadowy form of the watercrea leans over me. She smells like rosy perfume.

  Something pricks me in the neck. A needle. So she can drain my blood. So she can turn it to water, and everyone else in Occhia can drink it while I wither away.

  The cell door closes and locks.

  And the magic is gone. I can move again.

  I rip out the needle without even thinking. I ignore the hot blood that runs down my fingers and turn over to grab the bars. I press my face to them and peer out at the black staircase.

  The guards and the watercrea have disappeared. It’s so quiet.

  “Wait!” I scream, and it echoes in the stairwell. “I demand an audience!”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I say, as imperiously as I can.

  Nothing.

  There’s no reason to panic. There’s no reason to let her think I’m afraid, because I’m not. I’m not afraid, and I’m not weak, and I’m not about to die.

  This isn’t going to happen. Not to me.

  I was seven years old, and Paola was undressing me for bed. More accurately, Paola was attempting to undress me for bed while repeatedly cursing my existence. I slithered out of her arms and informed her that I wasn’t cooperating until she brought me another hot chocolate, which forced her to chase me around in a very undignified manner. I chucked my dolls at her feet and tipped a burning candle onto the carpet, but I had the disadvantage of tiny legs, so eventually, I lost. She grabbed me and started to wrestle me out of my clothes.

  And then I felt a strange pressure on my hip. It was quick but insistent. Like an invisible finger had reached down and poked me. My gown was already off, and I reached for my underpants and pulled them aside to look at the red smudge that had just made its home on my skin. It was like a small, bloody wound. The moment Paola realized what was happening, she stopped everything and rubbed it, like it was merely dirt. But it didn’t budge.

  I knew exactly what it meant. Everybody says the omens are put onto our skin by the hand of God. One day, out of nowhere, a small red mark shows up on our body. In a matter of hours, they spread across our skin, and when our body is completely covered, we disappear. And that’s the end.

  Some people make it well into their thirties before their first omen appears. Some people get them when they’re only children. Nobody can explain why. They say it’s God’s decision. We’re born from the veil that he created, and when our time is up, the veil takes us back. It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just the way things are.

  The moment an Occhian discovers their first omen, they turn themselves in to the watercrea. That’s the honorable way to die. Nobody would ever dare to hide their omens. The moment we know we’re dying, we have to give up our blood, or it will disappear along with the rest of us. The city needs every drop it can get, and running from that would be selfish and shameful. It would be sacrilege.

  When they feel the first sign of death touch their skin, dukes run out in the middle of Parliament meetings and priests stop in the middle of sermons. There may be a lot of powerful men in Occhia, but nobody is more powerful than their omens. Nobody is more powerful than the watercrea.

  I knew exactly what the mark on my hip meant. Death was coming for me. It was time to go. But I didn’t move. I just stared at Paola, and she stared at me.

  “Well,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “maybe it won’t spread. Let’s wait and see.”

  She got up to fold my clothes, and I stared at my skin. I waited, barely breathing, because I knew how the omens worked. I knew when adults were worried about me, and Paola looked worried. I knew she was just trying to delay the inevitable.

  But the omen didn’t spread. And for the next ten years, it kept not spreading.

  For ten years, I’ve been waiting to feel the hand of God again. For ten years, I’ve woken up in the morning and practically torn my nightgown in my desperation to look, sure that I was going to find myself covered.

  Everyone else’s omens spread quickly. Everyone else dies in a matter of hours.

  But not me.

  I have my arm outside the bars, trying to get a grip on the lock on my cell door, when I see the shadow of a man on the stairs. I withdraw my hand just as a guard in red comes stomping by. He slows down as he reaches me.

  “You shouldn’t take the needle out,” he says. “We need that blood.”

  “Ah, hello at last,” I say. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My omens aren’t spreading. See?”

  He looks me over. His gaze feels like cold fingers. I’ve never been naked in front of anyone but my nursemaid, but that’s certainly changed. I casually put my hand over my hip and leave the rest uncovered. I’ve always designed my gowns to assure people that I have plenty of unmarked skin—so much that I couldn’t possibly have anything to hide.

  “Now, listen—what’s your name?” I say.

  The guard is still studying me. He’s older, around my parents’ age, with broad shoulders and a bushy mustache. He probably inherited his red uniform from his father. Being a guard comes with a house and generous rations, and if he walks through any neighborhood’s art market, people will hand him things for free. But they won’t meet his eyes.

  “My daughter works for the House of Bianchi,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All good things, I assume,” I say, already knowing they won’t be.

  “You’re the one who put the spiders in Signorina Bianchi’s bed,” he says.

  One of my finer moments. Chiara Bianchi and I have always had a lively rivalry. At a recent party, she decided to spread very creative rumors about the things my betrothed and I were doing in bed—and the number of people we were doing them with. I found it hilarious. Until I saw that Ale did not. A few days later, on what just so happened to be the morning of her wedding, Chiara woke to discover a truly alarming number of spiders under her covers. And on her pillow. The hideous purple bite on her cheek went very well with her bridal gown.

  “Oh, she blames me for it, does she?” I say. “Perhaps she should ask herself why her bed was so dusty it was attracting spiders. What’s your name?”

  The guard doesn’t answer me.

  “No matter,” I say. “I’ve seen your face. I won’t forget it. Keep that in mind as you decide whether or not to help me.”

  A smile creeps onto his face. It’s edged with condescension.

  “You’re not the first person to try and threaten me,” he says. “But our duty in death comes for us all. Even noble brides.”

  He’s wrong. One tiny omen on my hip doesn’t mean anything. I’m obviously not like everyone else, and this obviously isn’t my duty.

  “Isn’t it dreadful to work in the place you’re going to die?” I say. “Which of these cells will be yours someday?”

  “I serve my people now, and I’ll serve them then,” he says.

  “What if your daughter gets her omens before you?” I say. “Will you be the one to strip her and lock her up?”

  “When she’s meant to pass on, she’ll do so with honor,” he says.

  It’s the same way every other Occhian talks about it. Nobody should be so resigned about death.

  “What if she wasn’t truly about to die?” I say. “What if she hadn’t gotten enough time to do everything she wanted?”

  His eyes flit over me again, but he’s growing detached.

  “Listen to the people all around you,” he says. “Do you think any of them had enough time to do everything they wanted?”

  “I don’t hear any other people,” I say.

  “Stop clawing so loudly at the lock of your cell, and you will,” he says.

  He turns away.

  “Wait—” I say. “You can’t le
ave me here. My omens aren’t going to spread. You’ll see.”

  He’s already thumping down the stairs.

  “I’m going to be the head of the House of Morandi,” I say. “They can give you anything you want. You know that. And once they see how you’ve imprisoned me for no reason—”

  He’s gone. I clamp my mouth shut and cross my arms. I refuse to yell after him like I’m desperate.

  The silence of the tower settles around me like a thick blanket. But it doesn’t last. Because now that he told me to listen, I can hear it.

  In the cell next to mine, somebody is breathing, slow and ragged and horrible. Somewhere above me, there’s a muffled sob that sends a shiver down my spine.

  Death in the tower is supposed to be quick. The watercrea takes as much blood as she can, but she’s racing against the omens. Once the omens spread, it’s over.

  Maybe these people are dying quickly. But it doesn’t sound like they’re dying painlessly.

  I draw back into the shadows, trying to hide from the sounds. I’ll convince the guard next time. I can’t let this go on for too long. I have things to do and people who need me.

  My papá needs me. He has two sons, but I’m still his favorite. He used to sit with me in the library after my lessons, teaching me his version of history and answering all the invasive questions I wasn’t supposed to ask. He used to take me on tours of Parliament and show me the offices of the House of Morandi and tell me it would be mine someday. He used to tell me about the laws we could pass and the power we could hold if we worked together. We’re a team, and we have so much ahead of us.

  Paola needs me. Paola is a devout Occhian who prays before every drink of water and never breaks a law, and yet, she looked the other way so that I could stay free. She became a nursemaid, forever unmarried, because she can’t bear children of her own. I was never just a job to her.

  And Ale needs me most of all. We’ve been together ever since the day our nursemaids plopped our tiny bodies side by side on my bedroom floor. Ale was clutching his favorite doll, which I immediately grabbed. Ale didn’t lift a finger in protest. He just watched as I mixed his precious toy in with mine. At the time, he was so quiet his family thought he’d never learn to speak, but I started talking and, to his nursemaid’s astonishment, he talked back. He’s my best friend, and we’re not in love, but I love him. He knows that.

  My legs grow stiff. I’m stretching them out when two guards appear and reach for my cell door. It swings open with a creak.

  I knew they would realize their mistake. I dive for the exit.

  “You really want to make this hard, don’t you?” one of them says.

  It all happens very fast. One of the guards yanks my arms over my head and wraps a chain around my wrists. The other one gets me onto my back. And then the needle is in my neck again, and my cell door is slamming, and I try to sit up but discover that my chain is also wrapped around the bars. I’m trapped.

  “They can’t do this to me,” I say into the dark.

  I wanted to say it out loud so that I could hear the confidence in my own voice. But instead, all I hear is the tiny quiver underneath my words.

  They can’t do this to me.

  I don’t understand why they are.

  THREE

  I WAKE TO THE CHIMING OF THE CATHEDRAL BELLS. AGAIN.

  It’s incredibly rude of them to interrupt my dream. Ale and I were at our wedding reception in the courtyard of his family’s manor, surrounded by a rapt crowd. I looked, somehow, even more stunning than I usually do. We were making the first cut into our massive wedding cake, and I swear I can taste the creamy frosting and the toasted pecans now.

  Last night, full of pre-wedding jitters, I ventured down to my family’s kitchen to check on the cake. A maid was perfecting the white frosting. I stuck my finger in it for a taste, and she went pale with horror and scrambled to fix the dent. I waited until she turned her back. Then stuck my finger in again.

  The cathedral bells die off, and the noise of the watercrea’s tower seeps back in. Somewhere below, someone else’s chain is scraping against the bars. The person next to me is still taking long, labored breaths. I wish they would hurry up and die. The sound is rattling my bones.

  I just want to be out of here and in the House of Morandi. I want to be clean and warm and sipping sugary coffee in a parlor with my best friend.

  The cathedral bells chime again. I close my eyes and count.

  Five bells.

  I wait.

  Six bells.

  This is getting ridiculous. I clearly don’t belong in this cell. If I did, my omens would be halfway across my body by now.

  Seven bells.

  I need to relieve myself, but I’m not going to just do it all over my legs. That’s humiliating.

  Eight bells.

  Well, I can’t hold it any longer. This is the guards’ problem now. They’re the ones who will have to pick up my grimy body when they carry me to freedom.

  Twelve bells.

  That doesn’t seem like the right number of bells.

  One bell.

  Three bells.

  I’m thirsty.

  I hear a strange clinking noise. It takes me a long moment to realize that somebody is undoing the chains around my wrists. My cell door creaks open. I try to sit up, but my head is spinning and my body is aching and the next thing I know, I’m in somebody’s arms, being cradled like a child. The guard holding me smells like sweat and salty blood.

  “Leaving?” I croak out.

  We’re moving.

  “Am I leaving?” I press.

  “Quiet,” he says. “I’m taking you to the watercrea.”

  The watercrea. I remember the sharp shadows of her face in the cathedral chamber. I remember her dark, cold eyes.

  “No,” I whisper.

  “She wants to see you,” he says. “You don’t have a choice.”

  I should have anticipated this. Of course she wants to see me. I’ve defied her for ten years. I’ve lived longer than anyone with omens should.

  I struggle to take in my surroundings as we move up the stairs. We pass tiny cell after tiny cell, and in every single one, there’s the shadow of a person. Most of them are slumped on the floor, and I can barely make them out.

  But then I see the girls. In the cell nearby, there are two little girls crammed into the same space. They’re naked and shivering, and they’re sitting up, watching me.

  My insides turn cold.

  “Why—” My mouth is dry. “Why are they in the same cell?”

  “We need more blood,” the guard says.

  There are so many people in here that they’ve run out of space. The watercrea’s tower is supposed to be a quick death.

  “How long will they live?” I say.

  “Until we can’t take any more,” he says.

  I wonder how long that takes. I wonder how much blood I’ve already lost and how much more I’m going to lose once the watercrea gets ahold of me.

  I’ve had quite enough of this tower.

  I throw myself out of the guard’s arms and hit the stairs. I’m sure it hurts, but I’m too cold and numb to feel the pain. He scrambles to grab me back, and the moment his hand touches me, I grab it and shove his fingers into my mouth.

  I bite down. Hard. It crunches, and he screams, and it’s disgusting and satisfying all at once. I’m already on my feet. I’m snatching the keys off his belt and scrambling for the cell with the little girls. I unlock it, but when they push on the bars with their tiny hands, I push back.

  “They’ll come after me,” I tell them, breathless. “Stay hidden and wait for your chance.”

  Their eyes are huge and terrified in the dark. I only have an instant to take them in, but I can see that one has an omen on her shoulder. The other has one on her wrist.

  I’m sure their omens will start spreading soon. Even still, I can’t let them die crushed together in a cell like they’re not even human.

  The guard grab
s me from behind, but I twist and slip out of his grip, and then I’m running. I stumble down the spiral stairs. He’s right behind me. So I let him get closer, and closer, and then I throw myself to one side and stick my leg out. He trips and goes flying down the steps. He lands in a crumpled heap, and as I run past, I kick him in the head for good measure.

  I don’t belong in this prison. I don’t want to be in this prison. And I always get what I want.

  When I reach the door to the tower, I can hear the guard far above. It sounds like he’s managed to get to his feet, and he’s stumbling and shouting for help. But I’m already slipping outside into the black night.

  Occhia has five different neighborhoods, made up of dark manors of varying size and grandiosity. They all cluster together to form a ring around the heart of our city—the cathedral and the watercrea’s tower. Off to one side of the cathedral are the Parliament buildings, and off to the other are the public gardens. It only takes me a minute to navigate back to the winding cobblestone street where my family’s house sits.

  All the windows are dark. I’m shivering in the chilly air and desperate to get inside. Everyone is going to be amazed to see me. My parents are going to wrap me in blankets and my aunts are going to feed me hot drinks, and they’re going to help me hide from the guards.

  I move toward our front door. But then my eyes fall on the enormous manor at the end of the street.

  The House of Morandi has been the wealthiest, most powerful family since the city began, when they took charge of organizing our government and our entire way of life. The central manor, with its towering, ornate double doors, is flanked by two wings, five stories high. Each wing has a tall trellis with ivy creeping up the sides. It’s the most flamboyant way for a family to flaunt their status. Their household is so revered that they receive enough water to keep decorative plants.

  Ale’s bedroom window is at the top of one of the trellises, overlooking a small iron balcony. There’s a burning candle sitting in his windowsill.

  Without really deciding to, I’m running down the street. I run all the way to the trellis and peer up at the bedroom window that’s supposed to be mine by now, and I decide the climb probably isn’t as horrible as it looks.