Beyond the Ruby Veil

by Mara Fitzgerald

  “Oh?” I say.

  “If you hadn’t heard, she’s planning a big celebration for her anniversary,” she says. “And she wants to be dressed accordingly, of course.”

  “So you’ll get to meet the Heart?” I say.

  She glows. “Yes. It’s such an honor.”

  I put my hands in my pockets. “An honor indeed. When will you meet her? Soon?”

  “This evening,” she says, a little jittery. “I’m just finishing my preparations. I’m getting specially made lace from the Circle du Bisset, and then some roses from—” She cuts herself off. She thinks she’s said too much in her excitement, and she doesn’t trust me. I can’t imagine why. I think I look very wholesome and trustworthy.

  “Well.” I curtsy, a bit awkward in my baggy pants. “Good luck. Now we’ll be able to tell everyone that we met the famous… what did you say your name was?”

  She glances at Ale one more time. He attempts a smile. It’s undoubtedly the least threatening thing she’s ever seen.

  “Tatienne,” she says to him, slightly reassured. “Tatienne du Brodeur.”

  Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, one of her tiny sketchbooks was slipped out of her bag and into my pocket. Also, a powder of crushed flower bulbs has been sprinkled into her jug of water. I hope it doesn’t make her sick and cause her to miss her appointment.

  She turns back to me. “Anyway, have a blessed day.” She walks away, taking a sip from her jug as she goes.

  Ale gives me a sideways look, his gaze flickering to the lump in my pocket.

  “What?” I say. “Did you expect me to push her off a balcony?”

  His face goes pale. He looks away.

  All at once, I remember the watercrea’s blood seeping onto the cobblestone. I remember the way her lifeless face looked right before her body disappeared.

  I shake myself. The watercrea is gone, and she’s never coming back. She’s taken up enough space in my thoughts, and I’m not going to give her any more.

  Esteemed seamstress Tatienne du Brodeur is making her way to one of the manors down the street. As she knocks on the door, she glances at us one more time. I quickly turn my attention to the statue, like I’ve already forgotten about our encounter, and wait for her to disappear inside.

  Then I head toward the nearest manor. The door to the kitchen is propped open in the alley. Next to it is a window. I peek over the sill to find a dozen servants bustling around, preparing dinner. There’s a vase of white roses sitting within arm’s reach, so I knock it over in very dramatic fashion.

  My little distraction works even better than I expected. Apparently, it’s not the first thing that’s been broken this evening. Everyone blames the same kitchen boy, despite the fact that he happened to be across the room. Said kitchen boy blames ghosts, and when the room is at its noisiest, I grab Ale and pull him inside. We’re able to quietly slip through a nearby doorway into the rest of the servants’ quarters.

  It takes a minute to find the room where servants do laundry and mend clothes. In Occhia, I know from snooping around in my own house, clothes are carefully spot-scrubbed. But here, of course, they do it to excess. There’s a massive tub of soapy water on the floor. I shut the door and lock it. I sort through the nearby piles of clothes and pick out something for Ale that’s respectable and relatively clean-smelling. I spend admittedly too much time on my own outfit. I find a not-hideous green day gown, but the neckline is too high and frilly, so I have to make a few quick alterations. I also take a black handkerchief that I can tie around my hair, because I have no illusions that it looks like the hair of a renowned seamstress.

  When we’re both changed, I inspect Ale. His hair is damp, but more or less patted back into its aristocratic coif. His pants—the longest ones I could find—are too short. He looks extremely self-conscious about it. In other words, he’s as good as he’s going to get.

  I pack up the sewing kit on the table, making sure it has several pairs of scissors. I slip an additional small but very sharp pair into my pocket, for good measure.

  “There’s a mirror out in the hall,” I say. “I’ll just go admire my new gown and tie on this handkerchief, and then we can—”

  “Um,” Ale says. He’s staring at me.

  “What?” I adjust my neckline. “It’s not even that scandalous. It’s like you’ve never seen anything else I’ve ever worn.”

  “Just, um… hold on.” He roots around the room until he finds a washcloth. He dips it into the soapy water and comes at me.

  I back up. “What are you doing? Don’t get me wet.”

  “Just…” He won’t let up. “There’s just some dust from the catacombs on you. I can—”

  I squirm out of his grip and snatch the washcloth away.

  “Emanuela,” he says.

  I’m already pushing the door open. “I can do it myself. You’re not my nursemaid, Ale—”

  As soon as I look in the mirror, it becomes glaringly obvious why he was trying to clean me up.

  My face is gaunt and my cheeks are hollow. My hair is in absolute tatters. I knew it was bad, but it’s far worse than I’d imagined. There are pieces touching my collarbone and pieces so short they’re sticking straight up. There’s dried blood on my neck, smeared around the wound where the watercrea’s needle went in. It’s definitely going to leave a scar.

  This isn’t how I’m supposed to look. I’m supposed to look like a girl who can do anything, not a girl who’s been broken and cobbled back together.

  I try to wipe the dirt off my face. It barely helps.

  Ale appears at my side. His fingers brush my hair, and I jerk away, sharp and defensive. Undaunted apparently, he reaches over to pull the washcloth out of my hand. “Let me try,” he says.

  He takes me back into the laundry room. He wipes me off again, then fusses with my hair as I clutch the sewing kit and stare at the buttons on his shirt. He smells sweaty. I can only imagine how I smell.

  He ties the handkerchief on for me and steps back.

  I pat my head. “Is it all covered? Do I look… normal?”

  It pains me to even say. I don’t want to struggle for normal. I want to look better than everyone else.

  Ale smiles. The disconcerting thing about growing up with my best friend is that he’s somehow every age at once. I’ll spot his lanky figure down the street and think he’s an actual adult man and have a moment of panic. Then he’ll beam at me the way he’s beaming now, and he’s a little boy.

  “You’re the prettiest girl I know,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “And I can’t live without your approval.”

  Outside, I can hear footsteps. Cabinets are opening and plates are clinking. The servants must be starting to set the table for dinner. We open the laundry room window and quietly shimmy out.

  A few minutes later, we’re standing at the bottom of the cathedral steps. The veil overhead has sunk into a deep red, and the city around us has gone quiet. In Occhia, this is the time when noble families are in their parlors, having drinks before dinner. Perhaps in Iris, this is when families get a giant bowl of water and guzzle it down and splash it everywhere.

  Ale casts a glance up at the dark cathedral windows. “We shouldn’t be nervous, right? People in this city would be excited to meet her.”

  “Thrilled,” I say.

  But we’re not from this city. We’re not here for a simple dress fitting.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I march up the steps and knock. The sound of my fist seems so small and insignificant against the huge wooden door.

  A long moment passes. Then, from behind the doors, there’s the dull click of a lock, and we push our way inside.

  The foyer looks very different now. The lights are low, and the inner chamber is closed. Even still, the space feels huge, and Ale and I are standing all alone on the black-and-white tile. I squint around in the shadows. I don’t see anything.

  I clear my throat and decide to address the iron chandelier hanging from the ceilin
g.

  “I’m Tatienne du Brodeur,” I say. “The seamstress.” I glance at Ale. “And this is my… manservant.”

  Silence.

  “This was a bad idea,” Ale whispers. “We shouldn’t have done this. We should have just—”

  Off to one side, there’s a loud crack. I jump at the same time that Ale seizes me around the shoulders.

  A door on the far wall has swung part of the way open. Beyond it, I see the hint of a staircase. There’s still no sign of a person.

  I assume the Heart wants me to be impressed that she can open doors without being anywhere near them. This must be another mystical quality that the people of Iris worship.

  I’m not impressed.

  I march for the door. The stairwell has warm lanterns on the wall and a soft red carpet. The top of the staircase is shrouded in darkness.

  Tatienne du Brodeur, the seamstress who lives in this city and attends its magical waterings every day, wouldn’t be afraid to go up these stairs and meet her benevolent and powerful ruler. So I’m not, either. I touch my pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of my sewing scissors. Then I start to climb.

  As Ale and I spiral up the steps, I hear the lock on the front door slide back into place.

  EIGHT

  AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, A DOOR IS WAITING FOR US, poised between two ornate statues. Each one depicts the same girl in the white gown, one hand raised, holding a decorative glass lantern with a flame burning inside.

  I stop, bracing myself on the wall. It was a very long staircase, and I’m winded.

  “So…” I say over my shoulder to Ale. “Do you… think…”

  I have to pause to suck in air. The sound is not flattering.

  “Do you think I should knock on the door?” I manage at last. “Or is she going to open it with her special connection to all of the cathedral’s—”

  The door swings inward to reveal the shadowy, imposing figure of a man.

  “Hello.” I straighten up. “I’m Tatienne du Brodeur. I’m the—”

  “I know,” he says.

  He stands back like we’re meant to come inside, so we do. We’re in a long, narrow entrance hall. It’s empty, except for a small table in the very center holding a vase of white roses. As the man leads us along, I give them a wide berth. We don’t grow white roses in the House of Rosa. Nobody would want to decorate their home with flowers the color of death.

  When we reach the far door, the strange man stops and turns toward us. He’s younger than I thought, actually—close to my age. He’s just very tall and broad in the shoulders. And he has a severe way about him. He looks like the sort of person who hates fun.

  “You’re early,” he says.

  “My apologies,” I say. “Perhaps there is such a thing as being too punctual, after all.”

  He narrows his dark eyes. He has brown skin and perfect curly hair. His clothes, like the cathedral, are white and spotless, and the embroidery on his vest is finely detailed.

  “The Heart won’t be able to meet with you now,” he says. “Surely you can appreciate how many demands she has on her time and energy.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Is there somewhere we could wait, so we could start setting up…?”

  He’s silent. He surveys Ale for a moment, but then, seemingly unimpressed, he turns back to me.

  “What’s in your pocket?” he says.

  I haven’t touched my pocket since I was standing at the bottom of the very winding staircase. I wish the people I’d eavesdropped on had mentioned something about the Heart having a fancy servant who is, apparently, all-seeing.

  “Oh, these?” I reach for my sewing scissors, glad I didn’t bring something even more suspicious. “They’re just my favorite pair of—”

  “You must be Madame du Brodeur!”

  The voice comes from directly behind me. I want to pretend like it doesn’t scare me half to death, but it absolutely does. I scramble to collect myself and turn around with dignity.

  It’s her. It’s the Heart. She’s standing right here, within arm’s reach, and the very fact of her presence is enormous—too enormous for this tiny hall. I expected her to look less immaculate up close, but her gown is pristine. Her long curls are artfully piled on top of her head, a delicate white rose still tucked behind one of her ears. I didn’t realize she was quite so tall. Or quite so elegant in the face. If anything, the statues don’t do her justice.

  I meet her eyes. They’re dark and glittering.

  I know those eyes. I’ve seen them before.

  I drop my gaze as fast as I can.

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s me.”

  My voice comes out hoarse. The hall has suddenly gotten very cold.

  I saw this girl in the catacombs. I saw her, and she saw me, and she had something on her hands that looked very much like blood.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” she’s saying, her accent light and airy and completely carefree. “I’m such an admirer. That gown you did last season, with the gigantic train and the— Theo, get out of their way, would you? We shouldn’t force them to linger in the hall.”

  “They’re early,” the serious-looking boy insists from the door.

  “I have time,” she says.

  The boy opens the door and stands aside, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

  I can’t go into her quarters. She’s going to recognize me. She’s going to see through me, just like the watercrea did.

  Ale is nudging me into the room, and I don’t want to go, but I don’t know how to stop it, either. I find myself in a parlor with a high vaulted ceiling. The most striking feature is a towering stained-glass window on the far wall. It depicts two raised, white-gloved hands shooting a cascade of water into the air. The blue glass scatters the dark red light from the veil outside, creating shards of color all over the tile floor.

  The Heart shuts the door. We’re alone with her.

  I reach up to make sure the handkerchief on my head is in place. My ruined hair is so distinctive. If somebody only caught a glimpse of me, it’s the thing they would remember.

  “Please, sit down,” the Heart says.

  We cross the room to perch on a love seat. I’m vaguely aware that Ale is looking at me with concern.

  “Is something wrong?” he whispers.

  I shake my head. I can still pretend to be an ordinary seamstress. I just have to learn more about this girl and her water. That’s all.

  The Heart brings over a silver platter of food. I wonder why her servant didn’t stay for such a job. There are no signs of any maids, either. In fact, I notice as I subtly glance around, the room looks a bit dusty. I can see it floating in the beams of light filtering through the window.

  The Heart pops the cork of a bottle that was already open and pours us very generous glasses of white wine.

  “I’m sorry about my brother,” she says over the gurgling. “He means well. He’s just tragically uptight.”

  I glance at the parlor door. So he wasn’t a servant. Now that it’s been pointed out to me, the two of them do resemble each other, all tall and dark and graceful.

  Having a brother is very… nonmystical of her. The watercrea in Occhia didn’t have a family. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what to make of any of this.

  “He won’t—” I clear my throat. My accursed voice is still coming out raspy. “He won’t be joining us?”

  “Oh, he’ll already be locked up in his study.” She waves a white-gloved hand at the far side of the room. “He loves his work too much to sit around and engage in our chatter.”

  She plops down across from us in a flurry of skirts.

  “But for me…” She nudges the silver tray closer to us. “Getting to know my people is my favorite part of being the Heart of Iris. It’s so much more intimate than standing on top of a fountain and looking down at you, although of course, I love that, too. Cakes?”

  I eye the tiny squares, frosted in delicate pastel shades. I try t
o convince myself to pick one up.

  The girl takes a gulp of her wine.

  “Anyway, Madame du Brodeur, let’s talk about you.” She looks at Ale. “And you, as well. Are you her assistant? What’s your name?”

  Ale freezes, looking mortified. There are approximately three cakes in his mouth.

  “You can call me Verene, by the way.” The girl realizes that he’s incapacitated and jumps in to fill the silence. “Madame du Sauveterre is fine if you insist on sticking to formalities. Please tell me how you’d like to be addressed. And then tell me everything about yourselves and your work.”

  I glance up to see her settling back onto her love seat, like she fully expects us to regale her with hours of seamstress stories.

  I can’t sit here for that long. Not with her right across from me, staring at me so attentively.

  “Actually, Madame du Sauveterre—” I say.

  “You really can call me Verene,” she says.

  “V-Verene,” I say. “If it’s not too rude to suggest, perhaps we could talk as we begin our work? I must admit, in situations such as these, I often find that I become rather… shy.”

  She’s quiet. Just for a moment. I resist the urge to slip a hand into my pocket and make sure my sewing scissors are still within reach.

  “Of course it’s not too rude!” she says. “You’re the brilliant artist. We shall do whatever makes you the most comfortable. Let me just show you to my—”

  She leaps to her feet and abruptly sways, like she’s dizzy. Ale reaches for her, because his instinct is to be a polite gentleman. I’m halfway to my feet, because if something is happening, I have to be prepared. But she’s already braced herself on the arm of the love seat and recovered.

  “Oops,” she says. “I think I drank that wine a little too fast.”

  She winks at Ale before she strides away. He blushes demurely.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” I mutter at him, trailing behind Verene out of the parlor.

  “She’s nice,” he whispers. “I was so afraid. But she’s nice.”

  That doesn’t change what I saw in the catacombs.