She sounds so very certain. She sounds like she believes in herself—in the Heart of Iris—all the way down to her bones.
For one disconcerting moment, I wonder if I’ve miscalculated. I wonder if it’s really possible for a city to be this uncomplicated and this perfect. I wonder if I’ve spoiled it all by treating their leader like she’s just as dangerous as the watercrea was. I have to imagine that once you’ve attacked a girl and tied her up and told her that you think she’s a liar, it’s pretty hard to convince her to share her miraculous, blood-free water with you. I barely knew anything about the watercrea’s magic, and I know nothing about this city. I could be wrong.
My hand drifts, of its own accord, to my hip, and the mark that’s been on my skin since I was seven years old. That mark means that I’m not like other Occhians. I’m not like anyone. I’m a girl who can survive the watercrea’s tower, and cross the veil, and do things that no one else has ever done. I’m not wrong about that.
And I’m not wrong about the girl in front of me. I can’t be wrong about her.
I’ve hesitated for too long. Verene has sensed it, and she’s barreling on.
“Just let me show you,” she says. “Then you’ll have no choice but to believe.”
I shove the gag back over her mouth.
“I’m the only one who gets to decide what I believe,” I say.
For good measure, I grab a silk pillowcase from her bed and shove it over her head. I tie it in place with a ribbon around her neck.
She looks well and truly secured, so I stand up. I beckon Ale and lead him to the far side of the room.
Tucked away on the other side of the wardrobe is a small window alcove filled with an easel and paints. A quick glance around at the works in progress tells me that Verene has painted the city streets below at least a dozen times. The light of the veil changes—from deep black in the middle of the night to the brilliant rich hue of midday—but the rest of it stays more or less the same. The paintings are, I reluctantly admit to myself, rather good. She has an eye for color. Especially the red.
I turn away, uneasy.
“Emanuela,” Ale says, “were you planning this the whole time?”
No.
“Yes,” I say.
“Because you knew that was her we saw in the catacombs?” he says.
“I didn’t just see her,” I say. “I saw blood on her hands.”
He looks pointedly at the easel. “She said she was painting—”
“I know what she said,” I snap. “Has it occurred to you that sometimes people lie? Sometimes they pretend to be things they aren’t, because it means they can be beloved like a living saint?”
“So you think…” He shifts. “You think she’s like…”
“Like the watercrea?” I say.
I can speak the word out loud, even if he can’t. She’s dead. Saying her title means nothing to me.
His eyes drift back to Verene’s wiggling form.
“How can you be so sure?” he says.
“How can you be so sure that I’m wrong?” I say.
He’s quiet.
“You can’t,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I know, Emanuela. I’m not that naive.”
“Pfft,” I say.
“I just…” Ale fiddles with the white rose behind his ear. “I don’t know. I don’t feel like she’s evil.”
I roll my eyes harder than I thought possible.
“Anyway.” I reach up and snatch the white rose from his ear, discarding it on the floor. “If you’re done wasting time with your feelings, we can discuss our plan. We need to get down to the underground well. I suspect there’s something there she doesn’t want us to see. And, obviously, we need to take her with us.”
Ale goes a little pale. “But we have to get past her brother. He might be evil. I did get that feeling about him.”
“She also has a housekeeper,” I say. “I saw her when I was sneaking around. There could be any number of surprises out there, so our approach has to be…” I look around the room. “Flawless.”
That’s how we end up stuffing Verene into a trunk we find at the foot of her bed. It’s filled with papers, and at first, I think we’ve come across something very interesting, but I quickly discover they’re nothing more than letters from her adoring citizens. I pick through them, hoping to find a hint of something worthwhile, as Ale tightens Verene’s bonds. Some people wax on about Verene’s elegance and generosity and incredible hair. More than one proposes marriage. And every single letter tells her how much better their life has been since she became the Heart. One man writes that he got his first omen the night before his daughter was born, and that he thinks every single day about how in the old Iris he would have missed his daughter’s entire life.
Obviously, what the watercrea told us about omens wasn’t true. They don’t all spread within hours. I heard the other Occhians wasting away in the tower, taking entirely too long to die. I can see the people of Iris, walking around marked but free. But I’m sure this man’s omens will spread sooner than he thinks. Not everyone is like me. Obviously.
I pick up my sewing kit, instructing Ale to drag the trunk. I peek out to make sure the hallway is empty, then lead us on.
“Do you really think anyone will believe that the Heart gave us a trunk of her gowns as an act of kindness?” Ale whispers, eyeing each door we pass.
“Only if you stop whispering to me like we’re in the middle of a devious scheme,” I say.
The parlor is mercifully empty, its lights low. Outside, the veil is nearly black. For a moment, I hover in the middle of the quiet room, waiting for someone to show up and regard us with the suspicion we deserve. No one does. I eye the two doorways on the far wall. I can only see shadows beyond them.
“Wait here,” I tell Ale.
“What?” he says in a panic. “You can’t just leave me alone with a suspicious trunk!”
“I’m just going to run over and look for an entrance to the underground well,” I say. “If she spends all her time there, she might have a way down from her quarters.”
“But what if somebody comes?” he says. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Act like a human being,” I say. “Can you manage that?”
“No!” he says.
I run off. I don’t have time for his fretting. I don’t have time to think about how we’re in a cathedral we don’t understand, in a city we don’t understand, holding captive a girl whose powers we don’t understand. I’m going to understand it all soon.
Through the first doorway is a dining room. The round table hasn’t been set for dinner yet, a jeweled chandelier overhead flickering gently. There are sets of arched double doors on either wall. I approach one and peer through the small round window at the top to see a balcony overlooking the cathedral square. The windows of the white manors are glowing softly beyond. It looks like a nice place for Verene to stand and wave prettily to her people. Or spy on them.
I go over to the other set of double doors. They don’t have a window, so I carefully, carefully push them open. I see nothing but a staircase that descends steeply into blackness.
I hate the look of it. And I’m pretty sure it’s where we need to go.
I turn back to the parlor and stop short just shy of the doorway.
Ale is no longer alone. He’s hovering by the coffee table in the center of the room, looking moments away from death. Standing a few feet away is Verene’s brother. I recall her addressing him as Theo.
I move forward, already working on my excuse for being in his dining room, but then I catch what Ale’s saying.
“They’re in her bedroom.” His voice is whispery.
I hide against the wall, peering out.
“And you’re not with them because…?” Theo says.
I realize the trunk is no longer at Ale’s side and have a brief, overwhelming moment of panic. Then I spot it on the far side of the parlor. Ale slid it behind one of the love seats. At le
ast he managed that much.
“I…” Ale says.
Seeing Ale with another boy is a rare sight, and I’m not sure if I find it sad or funny. Theo has a perfect posture and haughty cheekbones, all severity and aristocratic disdain. Ale is from the wealthiest house in Occhia. He should be very good at looking superior. Alas, he looks like the sort of person who has absolutely no idea what to do without something to hide behind.
“I’m just waiting out here,” Ale says.
“What are they doing?” Theo says.
“Girl things,” Ale says.
Theo is silent for a long moment. Somewhere, I can hear a clock ticking.
“Are you going to elaborate on that?” he says finally.
“They were just… they wanted privacy?” Ale says.
They stare at each other. I can see how desperately Ale is trying to not lose his nerve. Theo starts to turn toward the bedroom hall.
“Can I see your study?” Ale blurts out.
More silence. It’s physically painful for me to endure.
“Why?” Theo says.
“It sounds interesting,” Ale whispers.
“You’re… interested in how I designed the fountain system?” Theo says.
“Yes,” Ale says.
“It’s not magic.” Theo says it like he fully expects Ale to change his mind.
“I know,” Ale says. “I just… your sister mentioned—I just was curious about it.”
Theo hesitates. I start to reach for the sewing scissors in my pocket.
“You can look at the maps,” he says at last. “I suppose.”
And then, before I can figure out how to intervene, he’s leading Ale away. I run into the parlor and hover over the trunk. I don’t want to leave Ale up here. But we don’t have much time before somebody in these quarters figures out Verene is missing. I have a very small window of opportunity, and I can’t waste it.
I drag the trunk into the dining room, very aware of the conspicuous slide of it on the tile. I push open the doors and stand poised at the top, looking down into the shadows.
I’ll just quickly search the well and then come back. But I didn’t expect that I’d have to go down this staircase by myself. Now, when I find out what’s really happening in this city, I’ll be facing it alone.
But that doesn’t scare me. I was alone in the watercrea’s tower, and I handled that just fine.
I try to take the first step, but my body rebels. It won’t. It can’t. It remembers the cold floor of my cell and the chains around my wrists. It remembers the sounds of the prisoners around me, their breath rattling as they barely clung to life.
I grit my teeth. I have this city’s ruler tied up in a trunk. I’m in control now. I’ll always be in control.
I pull the trunk onto the landing of the staircase, shutting the door behind me.
Last year, Ale was at my house for our usual afternoon coffee. Two of my aunts were chaperoning us and sewing in the corner, bored out of their minds, while we steadily demolished an overly generous serving of raspberry tart.
“I found out the reason Giulia was crying when we left the reception,” I said. “Her new husband got drunk and told her he’d rather have married her sister.”
“Oh, that’s…” Ale pushed the last bit of tart in my direction. “Is she all right? That’s horrible.”
“It’s hilarious,” I insisted.
I idly tapped my fork. Giulia was two years younger than me. It’s possible I was a bit grumpy about having to stand in the crowd while she got to parade around as a bride.
“Isn’t it ridiculous, though?” I said.
“What?” Ale said. “Giulia’s husband wanting to marry her sister? I suppose he can’t help who he falls in love with, but…”
“Isn’t it ridiculous that the only thing standing between us and our own marriage is my womb? And all because the cursed thing refuses to bleed.”
Ale paled and gave my aunts a nervous glance, but they didn’t even look up. This was nothing they hadn’t heard before.
“It clearly has a mind of its own.” I considered, then dropped my voice. “Do you think I should… hurry the process along?”
Ale paled even further. “You can do that?”
“I’ve been contemplating it. If I say I’ve got blood coming out of my nether regions, what man is going to stick his head down there and check? Paola will go along with it. We’ll just—”
“No,” Ale said.
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “No? Why not?”
“You…” His eyes darted around the parlor. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I want to,” I said.
“But—” he said.
“Yes, Ale, I know it’s against the rules.” I set down my fork. “But I’m bored of this juvenile lifestyle. It’s time for me to be a married woman. Just because we can’t have children yet doesn’t mean—well.”
I stumbled a bit over the words. I met Ale’s eyes accidentally, and we both looked away. I noticed our feet were touching under the table. They often were, because he had no concept of where to put his absurdly long legs, but all of a sudden, it seemed very urgent that we not.
Ale and I spent quite a lot of time listening to our families talk about our future children—how pretty they would be, how numerous they would be, and how many deceased relatives we could name them after. To everyone else, the children were the entire point of our marriage. They were the entire point of our existences. But somehow, when it was just the two of us, this crucial topic never came up.
Ale fiddled with his napkin. His knee was now jiggling and rattling the plates. All at once, I decided I was tired of this unbearable awkwardness. We were best friends. We talked about everything else, so we could talk about this, too.
I poured more sugar into my coffee and stirred. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about anyway.”
“What?” he said.
“It will be much worse for me,” I said. “I’m the one who’ll have to squeeze out your enormous babies.”
He went very still.
“I’m quite pretty down there, just by the way.” I pressed on despite my extreme discomfort. “And it’s all going to get wrecked by your—”
He set down his coffee with a loud clink. My aunts paused in their sewing.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?” I said.
“Don’t make light of it,” he said. “You know… you know I don’t—” He cut himself off, glancing at our chaperones.
I leaned closer.
“Oh, and you think I do?” I said. “Do I sound like I’m giddy with anticipation? I’ve just decided to be mature about it. If we don’t produce heirs, they’ll nullify our marriage. Or did you forget?”
“Well…” he said.
“Well?” I said, uncomprehending.
He looked away. He was still jittery, his face pink and agitated.
“It’s just…” he said. “It’d be nice if any of it was real.”
“If any of it was real?” I said.
The words felt like broken glass in my mouth.
“Wouldn’t it?” He looked back at me. “Does that really not matter to you?”
I didn’t like the expression on his face. I didn’t like the tone of his voice. It felt presumptuous. It felt like he thought he understood how this all worked better than I did.
I jumped to my feet. I grabbed the front of his vest and dragged him out of the parlor, and as soon as we were out of my aunts’ sight, I pushed him against the wall.
“You want something real, do you?” I said.
“I was just—” he said.
“If that’s what you want,” I said, “then you can go propose to your beloved Manfredo, who doesn’t even know you exist. Let’s see how that goes for you. How do you think that will go for you?”
“I—” he said.
“If that’s what you want, then there’s nothing stopping you,” I said. “You can give up your title. Yo
u can give up your house. You can give up ever doing anything with your life, because you’re never going to do it without me.”
He stopped trying to protest. I glanced at the doorway of the parlor just in time to see a shadow shift across its threshold. That meant my aunts were pressed against the wall, eavesdropping. Ale and I never argued. This was undoubtedly the most exciting thing they’d witnessed all day.
“If that’s what you want—” I let go of him and turned away.
“Wait!” Ale said, and grabbed my wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. This is… this is the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Of course it is,” I said.
“And it is real, in its own way,” he said. “I know that. You’re my best friend.”
I didn’t say another word. I just yanked free of him and marched pointedly back to the parlor. He joined me, of course, and we finished our coffee in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes.
That night, I sat in my window, staring down the street at the House of Morandi. The candle in Ale’s bedroom was still burning, a tiny pinprick of light against the blackness of the veil. After a few hours, his shadowy figure appeared at the windowsill, and he blew it out. I leaned over and blew mine out, too.
He disappeared, but I stayed there. Still watching.
I didn’t have any other friends. I had a nursemaid who knew entirely too much about me. I had followers who clustered around me at parties. I had family who passed down their legacy and pushed me to do even better. They were all important, but they weren’t friends the way Ale was. Ale didn’t spend every day with me because there was something he wanted. The only thing Ale ever wanted from me was… me.
I didn’t have any paramours. I never had. Just the other day, Chiara Bianchi and I had been alone in a garden alcove, and in the middle of sniping at each other, she’d faltered and looked at me in a strange way. And I’d felt… something. But I didn’t know what to do with it. I wasn’t prepared for it. So I turned away. I preferred to keep those feelings locked up. I could let them out in my bedroom, late at night, not around a real girl—a girl who could betray me or discover my omen or, worst of all, decide I was unremarkable and treat me just like everyone else.
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