“Fierce little Emanuela,” she murmured. “I believe you. I really do.”
She was right to believe me. My fits became farther and fewer between. In a few months, I was bouncing from tea party to tea party, tussling with all the other little girls, and the worst of it was a distant memory.
I was completely healthy when my omen appeared on my hip. It just showed up out of nowhere, for no reason at all.
Of course I didn’t turn myself over to the tower. My sickness couldn’t kill me. One little mark on my skin wasn’t going to kill me, either.
Nothing is going to kill me. I won’t let it.
FIVE
I DON’T REALIZE I’VE DOZED OFF UNTIL I’M WAKING UP. It’s pitch-black, and there are cold fingers on my arm.
“Emanuela—shh—shhh—”
Now there’s a cold hand over my mouth, suffocating me. My first thought is that I’m in the watercrea’s tower. I’m certain that her guard is carrying me off to whatever terrible punishment she uses on people who defy her.
“Sorry.” The voice is whispering right in my ear. “Sorry. I—I heard something. I think—”
Of course. It’s Ale. I’m in the catacombs with him because the watercrea is dead. Because I killed her.
“I blew out the lantern,” he says.
I sit up and look around the dark hall, which doesn’t accomplish much. Then I hear the footsteps. They’re soft and quick, and they’re coming from… somewhere nearby. The way the sound bounces off the stone walls makes it hard to be sure about anything more than that.
Ale fumbles at me like he’s trying to pick me up.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Shh,” he says. “I’m hiding you. In one of the memorials.”
He’s talking about the nooks all sitting in a row, meant for dead people. I’m not going into one of those. I squirm away.
“Emanuela—”
He tries to grab me again. A brief struggle ensues, and my foot connects with something metal. Our lantern topples over and rolls, and it is, to say the least, rather loud.
Ale and I freeze.
The footsteps get louder.
I climb to my feet. I’m still shaky, but sleep has given me just enough strength to get by. I can feel Ale close behind as I run, quietly, trying to get away from the footsteps. I reach the end of the hall and duck around the corner.
I’ve miscalculated. Someone is there. It’s a shadowy figure holding a glowing lantern of their own.
They lunge for me.
“Emanuela—” they’re saying. “Don’t you—augh! Don’t you dare bite me, you little—”
I recognize the shrill voice and cease my attack.
“Paola?” I say. “How did you—”
“Shh.” She pushes me against the wall and urges me to the ground, where she crouches in front of me. “Here.”
She puts something in my lap. It’s a loaf of bread, and I’m tearing into it without even deciding to.
“Where’s Alessandro?” she says. “Oh—hovering, as always. Get over here, you silly thing. We don’t have much time.”
“How did you find us?” I say through the bread as Ale’s worried face appears over Paola’s shoulder.
“A rumor,” she says. “Apparently, one of the maids at the House of Serpico saw you go this way. The guards will be close behind me—although I heard them arguing over who has to search down here, the superstitious lumps.”
“You’re superstitious,” I remind her.
“But I’m always prepared.” She produces a small pouch out of her bosom and waves it around me, like she’s warding off demons. I’m very familiar with Paola’s protective blends. This one smells characteristically horrid—like too-spicy peppers and rotten garlic.
“So the guards know we’re here,” I say.
“And they’ve searched everywhere else,” she says. “You can’t make enemies in Occhia.”
You can’t make enemies in Occhia is one of Paola’s favorite sayings. It means that even two Occhians who live in distant manors in distant neighborhoods will see each other at every worship and every party and every holiday market. This, of course, has never stopped me from making enemies before. I like being able to see them.
“We just have to find a way back up to the city,” I say. “One that’s not crawling with guards. Then—”
“It’s not just the guards, Emanuela,” she says.
“What?” I say.
“Everyone knows what you did,” she says. “Everyone’s looking for you, and they want to see you punished. They’re desperate for it, actually. I’ve never seen the city like this.”
Everyone is looking for me. The thought is, somehow, equal parts disconcerting and pleasing. They’re not thinking of me as the girl who was stripped naked and dragged out of her own wedding. Not anymore.
“Why are they so worried about me?” I say. “If they were smart, they’d be hoarding water.”
Paola’s face turns grim.
“There’s no water to hoard,” she says.
“But the underground well—” I say.
“The underground well is nearly empty,” she says. “The men from Parliament rushed there and found nothing but a few drops. Word got out, and then the panic really started.”
My mouthful of bread feels like it’s turned to ash.
“But…” Ale says, his face white. “But it can’t be empty. It’s not supposed to be empty.”
“Tell that to the well, boy,” Paola says impatiently. “Nobody knows where the water went. There’s all kinds of talk in the streets. Most people think you took it, somehow, which is just—” She pauses, eyeing me suspiciously. “You didn’t, did you? Are you hiding it somewhere to make a point? If anyone could—”
I force down my bread and cough. “Alas, even I don’t know how to steal an entire well.”
Paola reaches into the bag at her side and pulls out a small jug of water. She presses it into my hands, and I take a long drink.
“But, Paola—” I’m a little breathless as I lower the jug. “It doesn’t make sense. We should have had lots of water. The watercrea was taking so much blood. More than we realize.”
“What do you mean?” she says.
I want to explain what I saw in the tower. All those people, sobbing and wasting away. Two little girls crammed into the same cell. The watercrea wasn’t squeezing out the last drops from doomed Occhians. She was meticulously draining her prisoners for everything she could get—prisoners who turned themselves in because of omens that aren’t spreading.
I’m supposed to be the only one with an omen that isn’t spreading. I can’t quite wrap my head around what it means. I can’t put it into words with her and Ale staring at me. But two things are very certain: I didn’t belong in the tower, and it’s good that the watercrea is dead.
Even if the underground well is empty. Even if the city is descending into chaos. Even if I have no idea how to fix it and no time to figure it out.
I take another drink, desperately.
Then, all at once, it hits me. Paola just told me that there’s no more water. Only wealthy people will have enough on hand to survive. And yet, here she is, presenting me with an entire jug.
“This—this is yours—” I hold it out to her.
She pushes back. “It’s yours.”
She knows the guards are coming. And yet, she snuck down here. For me. I’m so used to Paola’s presence—she woke me up every morning and brought me hot chocolate every night and listened to my constant monologue of very important opinions—that I hadn’t even thought about what it means for her to have sought me out. No one from my family has sought me out. But I’m sure there’s a good reason for that.
“My papá,” I say. “He’ll help us. He will. If we can just—”
“You can’t get to him, Emanuela,” she says. “The heads of the Houses have all locked themselves in the Parliament building. I’m telling you—it’s bad up there.”
“But
—”
Somewhere in the distance, a door cracks open. It’s followed by the thudding of dozens of pairs of feet.
Paola yanks me up and shoves me at Ale.
“You need to run,” she says.
I don’t want to run. I want to help her. I want to know exactly how to fix all this. But I don’t. I don’t even know where to start, and for a moment, I’m frozen as that fact looms in my mind, huge and terrifying.
“We’re going to find a way,” Ale says.
Paola and I both turn to him.
“What?” Paola says.
“We’re going to find a way to get more water,” he says. “Right, Emanuela?”
His voice is uncertain, but his eyes are wide and trusting. It’s the way he’s looked at me since the moment we met.
He’s looking at me like he needs me. Because he does.
They all need me. I’m the only person in a thousand years who had what it took to best the watercrea. That means I’m the only person who has what it takes to replace her.
Of course it does. I can figure out how to do something no Occhian has ever done, because I’m not like any other Occhian.
My people may not understand that yet. But they will soon.
I stuff what little remains of the bread in my pocket and clutch the water tighter to my chest. I look at Paola.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re going to find a way.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can’t read the expression on her face. I wonder if she’s thinking that I look like a starved shell of a person, not the savior of a city. I wonder if she can tell how much effort it’s taking for me to lift my chin and exude confidence. I wonder if she’s remembering the last time I told her I had everything under control.
She sighs. She moves closer and gently pushes my mangled hair out of my face, and it feels like I’m back in my childhood bedroom and everything is going to be fine.
“I believe you,” she says. “God help me, but I do.”
She hands Ale the lantern. “Go that way,” she says, pointing. “I’ll send the guards in the opposite direction. There are exits closer to the edge of the city. If—if you just keep running… maybe they won’t catch you.”
She scurries off into the shadows. Ale and I turn to find ourselves facing a long hall and, at the end, black nothingness.
The guards’ footsteps are getting louder. Ale looks at me, and I can see the fear on his face. It’s one thing to step into the catacombs—ancient, unmapped, and unknown—and take a few turns here or there. It’s quite another to dive into their depths.
I reach over and take his hand. It’s cold.
“Let’s run,” I say, with the assurance of someone who knows where she’s going and has the strength to get there.
And we run.
Two years ago, Ale and I were at a party at the House of Donati. I had just finished a lively round of sparring with Chiara Bianchi. She ran off to cry somewhere, and Ale and I made our way back to the refreshments table. We were surrounded, as usual, by a throng of younger nobles trying to curry my favor. The girls watched me load crostini onto my plate, then took modest amounts for themselves. They had all attempted to copy my elaborate braided hairstyle, with varying degrees of success. I eyed them again, trying to decide who I would choose to receive the small jeweled comb in my clutch. I liked to pass out rewards. It kept them on their toes.
“You’re so right about Signorina Bianchi,” Valentina Moretti told me. “She does look like a sad potato dressed in old bedsheets. You’re dressed much better. And you’re much prettier.”
“Everyone thinks so,” Giulia Cassano said quickly.
“I am prettier than her, aren’t I, Signor Morandi?” I said, just to torment Ale.
“What?” he said in a panic, like the question was life-or-death. “Yes. Yes? Yes.”
He took a gulp of his wine. He was already on his second drink, which was strange. He usually didn’t partake. I didn’t drink, for a variety of reasons—my doctors discouraged it, I preferred to stay sharp, I had other ways of entertaining myself—and Ale never did anything unless I did it first.
“You’re gushing. Do try to get ahold of yourself.” I beckoned him, and he obediently leaned down so I could adjust his bowtie, which was dark purple to match my gown.
Valentina sighed. “The two of you look so good together. You’re a perfect match.”
I glowed. I agreed, just not in the way Valentina thought. The other girls were engaged to the group of man-children across the room, who were rambling on about government business they didn’t understand and throwing olives into each other’s wine and generally being dull. Ale was also a man-child, of course. But he was at my side, listening to me, like a true husband and business partner.
I opened my mouth to give Valentina an appropriately haughty response, but then I caught sight of Ale’s face.
There were tears welling in his eyes. And now they were running down his cheeks.
Everybody followed my gaze. They stopped, crostini halfway to their mouths, and gawked.
Without a word of explanation, Ale turned away and ran out the parlor door. Giulia leaned over and whispered something to her neighbor. They both giggled.
Everyone else only knew three things about Alessandro Morandi: He was rich, he always had his nose in a book, and he’d gotten so nervous during First Rites that he’d vomited in front of the whole cathedral. They didn’t know what it was like to be his best friend. They didn’t know that he scrutinized the barrage of daily letters I wrote him and responded to my every inane thought. They didn’t know that he made me feel so much better just by being in a room, like a cornerstone I could always return to. And somehow, they still didn’t know that he belonged to me, which meant they weren’t allowed to touch him.
“Signorina Cassano,” I said, “your wine looks intriguing. May I try it?”
Giulia handed me her glass. I dumped it down the front of her dress and swept out of the parlor.
I found Ale in the exact sort of place where he always took shelter—the manor’s library, sitting on the floor with his back to a bookshelf. I sat down next to him, tried to think of something to say, and came up empty. I hadn’t seen him cry since we were children.
“Is everyone laughing at me?” he whispered.
“Of course not,” I said. “They know better.”
He furiously wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“What, do you think you made me look bad?” I say. “That’s impossible.”
His mouth trembled again. “No, it’s… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like everyone else is exactly who they’re supposed to be, and I’m just… not.”
A strange feeling, almost like foreboding, crept over me.
“What does that mean?” I said.
Another tear rolled down his cheek. “I’m going to be awful at being the grand duke—”
“But you have me,” I said automatically.
His face crumpled. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Instantly, I was convinced this meant his parents were about to end our engagement. They were the richest family in Occhia. They could get rid of me for any reason—for being too prone to scandal, or too sickly as a child, or even too short. They were all horrendously tall. They probably wanted tall children.
“Ale.” My voice was a little too harsh. “Is something going on?”
“It’s— You don’t deserve this. You deserve more, and I should have told you sooner. I was trying to convince myself that I could—” He paused for entirely too long. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think I feel the way a good husband should. About you. And if you want someone who can—”
“Wait,” I said. “Are you just trying to tell me that you’re not in love with me? And that it’s partly because you don’t favor girls at all?”
He stopped short, gaping at me. A strange look, almost like betrayal, crept into his eyes, and I wondered if I should have let him fully explain himself. Ale and I never
talked about the romantic part of our engagement, but I thought it was because we didn’t need to.
“Dear God, Ale,” I said. “I’ve seen the way you look at boys. You’re not subtle. Do you think you’re subtle?”
He kept gaping at me. He looked so stunned that I had to laugh.
“Do you think I care about that?” I said. “Do you think they’re going to perform a test on us at the altar, and if they decide we’re not in love, they’ll call it off? Wait, wait—do you think I’m in love with you? Do you think I lie awake at night dreaming of kissing your drooly mouth?”
I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. I had to brace myself on his shoulder.
“I—” He rubbed at his eyes. “Everyone’s always saying we’re so perfect together, and you always seem so pleased—”
“We are perfect together,” I said. “I’m ambitious. You’re rich.”
And we were best friends. But I didn’t say that. It felt silly.
“You can step out with boys if you want,” I continued. “I don’t care. People do that all the time.”
“My parents don’t,” he said, scandalized.
“We’re not your parents. We’re going to do things our own way, and that means you can have the torrid affair with Manfredo Campana that you so obviously want to have.”
Ale’s face turned red. “I— How did you know— Manfredo could have anybody he wanted. He would never notice me.”
“Oh, I could make sure he does.”
His face turned purple. “No, I don’t want… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want— I don’t know. It’s just that I spend every day sitting in on all these Parliament meetings and training to be like my papá and pretending this is what I want. But that’s all fine, I suppose. I know I’m lucky to be born into it.”
That was an understatement. I wasn’t allowed into Parliament meetings. I’d tried—once in disguise as a servant bearing the coffee, even—but it was a privilege reserved for men who were the head of their House. Unless, of course, they were the House of Morandi, and then they were rich enough to do whatever they wanted.
Beyond the Ruby Veil Page 6
