I start walking again. Faster.
“Wait—” Ale runs after me.
I reach the edge of the cathedral square. Off to one side are white, columned buildings that look very much like Occhia’s Parliament buildings. On the other side is a public garden, lusher and greener than any I’ve ever seen. There’s still no sign of anyone.
There’s something very unusual about this city, and I know what it is, but I’m afraid to name it, even inside my own head.
I lead Ale across the square. I try to look like I visit this cathedral every day. I try to look like I know exactly what I’m going to find inside.
I’m just past the halfway point when I feel it. Someone is watching me approach. I’m certain of it.
I stop. I survey the cathedral’s closed doors and intricate white face and narrow windows. There’s no sign of life.
I turn to Ale. “Did you feel…?”
“What?” he says, instantly on alert.
“Nothing,” I say, and keep going.
I’m not dead, I remind myself. As long as I’m not dead, I can handle anything.
I climb the steps to reach the cathedral doors. And finally, I can hear something beyond the thick walls. It’s the steady, muffled hum of voices. Of people.
I stare at the intricate wood paneling and will myself to just reach out and push my way inside. I think about the last time I was in a cathedral that looked almost, but not quite, like this one. I think about my papá’s arm in mine and Ale waiting at the altar and the woman in the red gown who took one look at me and knew about my omen.
I think about the thing I saw in the catacombs, and the moment when its eyes met mine.
I think about my nursemaid, stuck in a city with no water, braving the guards so that I could slip away. I think about my people panicking in the streets. I think about all those prisoners in the watercrea’s tower. No one else is going to help them.
I reach out and slowly, slowly push on the door.
Someone on the other side wrenches it open and ushers me inside, and all at once, Ale and I are propelled through the foyer and surrounded by people. The inner chamber is full of them. They’re milling around under the enormous arched ceilings, their chatter loud as it echoes off the walls. There are no pews. There’s no altar. There’s a shiny floor of black-and-white tile and, in the very center, an enormous, three-tiered dais.
It looks like the statues we saw in the street. But there’s no marble woman standing on top. It’s empty.
For a moment, I’m frozen at the edge of the crowd. I’m waiting, instinctively, to be recognized. I’ve never gone anywhere in Occhia and not been recognized. I’ve never been so surrounded by people I don’t know. I’ve never walked into an event and not known, more or less, everything that was going to happen.
“She’s late,” the man next to me says, shifting impatiently. His eyes are on the dais.
“She’ll be here soon,” his friend says.
They’re not speaking in Occhian, but rather an oddly accented version of Culaire. In my city, Culaire is mostly confined to a neighborhood that we call the Lily. I speak it well, of course, because I’m very educated. And I like the art market in the Lily. They have the fanciest desserts.
But I’m not in the Lily. I’m in… this place.
Someone elbows me in the back as they push past, and I whip around in surprise. People in Occhia know better than to jostle me.
It’s a tall girl in a maid’s dress. She has a red smudge on her cheek. It’s so unexpected—so very blatant—that, for a moment, I can’t even comprehend what it is.
It’s an omen.
No. It’s not just one omen. She has two omens on her cheek.
She doesn’t seem to notice. It feels like I’m the only one who can see them. And for a moment, I’m convinced that none of this is real.
Then the dais in the center of the room goes up in smoke. Huge columns of it shoot out of the center, dissolving into the high ceiling.
I grab Ale’s wrist, fully prepared to run away from whatever horrifying thing is about to happen. But then I realize that nobody around me seems concerned. Instead, they’re starting to sing.
At first, it’s more of a murmur. But as the smoke starts to clear, it builds. The words sound like a language I’ve never heard, which is unnerving. I thought I was at least passably familiar with every language spoken in my city. But then, this isn’t my city.
The shadow of a person appears on top of the dais, and the singing grows. People put their arms in the air, like they’re reaching for the mysterious figure.
Ale and I exchange a sideways look. We’re the only people in this entire room who don’t know the song. He sinks down a little, trying to make himself less tall.
The smoke dissipates to reveal a woman in a white gown. A girl, maybe. I’m very far away and she’s very far above, but she looks young and slender, with brown skin and long, curly hair. There’s a white rose tucked behind one of her ears. She’s smiling. And even though I can barely see her face, I can tell that she’s glowing, like there’s nowhere else she’d ever want to be.
I know instantly who she is. She’s the statue.
The singing is tremendous now. The people are beaming and jostling me in their excitement.
The girl lifts her white-gloved hands.
The singing cuts off. The crowd around me vibrates in anticipation.
And then, water.
It pours down from the platform under the girl’s feet, falling from tier to tier to gather in a basin below. Two streams form an archway over her head, framing her. All around the statue, streams are coming to life, leaping from place to place to form an elaborate lattice below her.
I’ve never seen anything like it. Like the rest of this city, it’s beautiful.
And then, it’s shooting out from the fountain into the crowd.
And then, it’s everywhere.
It’s hitting me in the face. I think it came out of the ceiling. I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m reeling and sputtering, and it won’t stop coming. No one else seems concerned. As far as I can tell, they’ve still got their arms up, soaking it in.
Abruptly, the deluge stops. When I’ve blinked it all out of my eyes, I turn to find Ale, his hair plastered to his forehead. He’s staring at the drops of water running off his fingers like he’s trying to figure out if they’re real.
I look back at the dais, only to find that the girl in the white gown has disappeared. The soaked crowd pushes us back out the cathedral doors, like the show is over, and I’m too baffled to resist.
At the top of the steps, I catch a brief glimpse of the city laid out below—the red veil over the shining white manors, and the branching cobblestone streets cutting it all up.
Ale grabs my arm, which is how I know he sees it, too.
The statues we saw earlier—the smaller versions of the dais inside—are all alive with water. Every statue I can see in the distance is glistening as it pours down the tiers. And it shows no signs of stopping.
I’ve never seen so much water in my life. I can’t comprehend it. I don’t even know how to start.
When we hit the cathedral square, the people splinter off, returning down the streets to their teatime, and their laundry, and their children. They pass by the water-filled statues without a second glance. Ale and I stand there, soaking wet and watching it all, until we’re some of the only people left. A cluster of gossiping nobles lingers near the gardens, wringing out their fine clothes.
No one is surprised by what just happened. It’s like it happens every day.
I turn back to the cathedral just in time to see the doors swing shut. It’s quickly followed by the heavy sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.
The cathedral in Occhia was never locked.
“What is this place?” Ale says.
It’s not like Occhia at all.
“Emanuela?” Ale presses.
“What?” I say.
“What should we do?�
� he says.
I don’t know. I don’t know how we got here. I don’t know what to make of the things we just saw. I don’t know the name of a single person or a single place around me, and I feel the prickling sense of not belonging in a way I’ve never felt it before. I’m stranded and hopelessly out of context, like a child dropped into a dinner party where the adults will never think to explain anything, because it’s all so obvious to them.
There’s only one thing I’m certain about. Somewhere in the veil, my city is out of water. And I’ve come upon a city absolutely drenched in it.
Surely I can persuade them to share.
SEVEN
“SO…” ALE SAYS. “WHAT EXACTLY ARE WE DOING?”
We’re sitting against the wall of a manor at the edge of the square, stealthily positioned in the midst of an herb garden. I’m peering through the stalks at the mostly silent cathedral. We’ve probably been here for a couple of hours, but I’m not sure, because I haven’t heard the familiar peal of the bells. Overhead, the veil has darkened to the deep red of late afternoon. I’m trying not to the think about the veil darkening in Occhia, too.
“We’re waiting,” I say.
“For what?” Ale says.
“For an opportunity,” I say.
Ale is quiet. I pick through the plants in front of me, looking again for something I can eat. I don’t recognize everything, but I do notice a familiar intruder that’s sprung up next to the sage. It’s called the calalla flower. Its beautiful white bulbs are incredibly rough on the stomach. I’m a gentle-mannered young lady who would never wish stomach illness on anyone, of course, so I have no reason to know that. We just happen to be very vigilant about weeds in our garden at the House of Rosa.
I pick some bulbs and put them in my pocket. I’m sure they’ll be useful.
“So we’re waiting for an opportunity,” Ale says. “An opportunity for… what?”
“We need to know more about this cathedral,” I say. “And the front door is the only way in.”
I know this because we walked around for an examination, arm in arm like we were on a casual stroll. In Occhia, the cathedral has a dozen side doors for the ease of its various priests and visitors. Here, there are none.
There’s also no sign of a tower. There’s just empty cobblestone.
I can’t shake the feeling that this whole city is playing a cruel prank on me. The longer I sit here, the more it gnaws at me.
“Alas,” I continue, “the front door seems to be closed to visitors. So we need to find a way around that.”
Ale glances around. “By sitting in an herb garden? How—”
I hold up a hand to shush him. I hear footsteps through the open window over our heads.
“We’re listening to gossip,” I whisper. “Kitchens always have the best information.”
Inside, pots are clanking. Bowls are rattling. Drawers are opening and shutting. All I have to do now is wait to hear something juicy.
“Where’s my good knife?” a voice says, high and melodic. “There’s so many potatoes tonight. I need my good knife.”
“Oh, do you mean this knife?” The second voice comes from across the room.
“Aubert! Give it back!” The first voice has gone all giggly. “Don’t you dare. If you lick it, you’re the one who has to wash it again, you silly—”
So this city has incredibly tedious flirting, too. It would have been nice if it didn’t.
The minutes tick on as more of the house staff appear in the kitchen. The potato-cutting maid and the dishwasher continue to poke at each other. Two cooks argue passionately about some card game they lost last night. The housekeeper comes in and scolds everyone for not arranging yesterday’s cheese platter properly, and when she leaves, they all grumble about how the cheese platter isn’t their job. Food starts to sizzle, and the smell of garlic and rosemary drifts out the window, and I think about how I haven’t eaten since we left the catacombs. And how, before that, I hadn’t eaten since the day of my wedding.
I’m deep in amorous thoughts about rosemary potatoes when Ale elbows me. He casts a significant look at the window, and I sit up straighter.
“It seems like so long ago,” the maid is saying. “Things have changed so quickly.”
“I’ll never forget the first watering,” one of the cooks says. “And to think—I’ll soon be telling my grandchildren about it. I still can’t believe I’ll live to see them grow up.”
“Your wine habit might have something to say about that,” the other cook says.
“I’m only driven to wine because of your terrible strategy—”
“We’re very blessed to live in such historic times,” the housekeeper interrupts, because apparently she’s returned. “Perhaps we should show our gratitude by doing our jobs and arranging the cheese platter correctly. If you lot try and serve the family this disaster, I swear I’ll—”
There’s a small kerfuffle during which the cheese platter is rearranged and the housekeeper leaves. For a moment, the kitchen is quiet.
“Do you think the Heart means it?” the dishwasher says. “All the things she says about how one day, everyone in Iris will have a house of their own? Not just the noble families?”
“Of course she does, Aubert,” the maid says. “She’s only been ruling the city for two years. She’s working on it.”
“The Heart keeps her promises,” one of the cooks says. “She promised that Iris would always have all the water we’ll ever need. She promised that the tower would come down and no one would ever die in it again. And here we are.”
I’m very aware that Ale is looking at me. But I’m not brave enough to look at him. I’m just holding my breath, desperate to hear more.
“It is a bit strange, though, isn’t it?” the dishwasher says.
“What is?” the maid says.
“That we only see her at the waterings,” he says. “And that it’s the only time we’re allowed in the cathedral. When she started, she said she wasn’t like… y’know.”
There’s a silence that I can’t quite interpret. But it doesn’t seem good.
“Just to be clear,” one of the cooks says, “the Heart spends every day using her mystical powers to make water for the whole city—water she creates out of nothing—and your complaint is that she’s never pulled you aside after the watering and invited you upstairs for tea?”
“It’s not a complaint,” the dishwasher says quickly. “I just thought it might be nice if we got to see her more, that’s all.”
“She is very beautiful,” the maid says, a jealous note in her voice. “I’d love to meet her, too. Colette and I are always saying that if she ever wants to hire maids—”
At that moment, somebody in the kitchen chooses to dump a potful of dirty water out the window. I barely manage not to scream. I had just dried off from the watering in the cathedral.
I need to move anyway. I need to think. I crawl out from the hedges and drip my way down the darkening street, trying to make sense of the swirl in my head.
“Emanuela,” Ale says, “did you hear what they said about—”
Yes. I heard. They said that the ruler of this city—the girl they called the Heart—makes water from nothing. They said that their people don’t have to give up their blood and die in a tower. They did, two years ago. But they don’t anymore.
I near the end of the street, where one of the statues is located, and stop. Water is still flowing down from the tiers, bubbling madly as it collects in the basin below. The figure of the girl in the white gown stands on top, her slender hands outstretched, smiling in a way that looks gentle and virtuous. I study her blank eyes.
I don’t know what to believe. The watercrea of Occhia was supposed to be invincible, but I pushed her over a balcony and killed her. Occhia is supposed to be everything that ever was, but I went into the catacombs and ended up in another city under the veil.
I can’t believe anything. Not until I see it for myself.
I have
to find a way into the cathedral. I have to know if this city is really as perfect as it seems.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
At the unfamiliar voice, I turn to see a girl in a frilly blue day gown hovering nearby. She was speaking to Ale, apparently, because she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for a response. This is, of course, a lost cause. Ale doesn’t speak to strangers, especially not in one of his secondary languages. At least the interloper isn’t a handsome boy. Ale would have died on the spot.
“Who’s beautiful?” I say.
The girl looks at me. She hesitates. I assume it’s because of my intimidating aura.
“The Heart,” the girl says finally, like it’s obvious. “I was just… I just can’t help but admire her every time I pass by.”
She inches over to the basin. She’s holding a small glass jar that she dips into the water. She takes a drink.
So these people carry around their own jars. And they fill them up and chug them down whenever they please.
In Occhia, the watercrea controlled everything about the water. Her guards portioned out rations and brought them to each house every morning. Nobody ever got more, not even sick people in dire need of it.
This luxury is grotesque.
My people need it. I need it.
“I was admiring the Heart, as well,” I say, with a subtle attempt at mimicking the girl’s lilting accent. I’m uncomfortably aware of the way every single word differs, ever so slightly, from the way I would have said it in Occhia.
“Well,” she says, curtsying briefly, “have a blessed day.”
As she starts to turn away, her bag shifts, and I catch a glimpse of supplies that I recognize.
“Do you sew?” I say.
The girl pauses. She fiddles with a strand of hair that’s fallen out of her hilariously puffy updo. I don’t know how her delicate neck is supporting it all.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m from the Circle du Brodeur.”
She says it as though I’m supposed to be impressed.
“How impressive,” I say.
“Actually, I…” She pauses. She glances at Ale, then back at me, and puffs up her chest a little bit. “I’ve been invited to sew for the Heart,” she says.
Beyond the Ruby Veil Page 8
