Grace and Fury

by Tracy Banghart

  Nomi couldn’t look away. She couldn’t move. If Maris hadn’t been chosen, and her father had followed through on his threat—she would have been sent to prison, just like Serina.

  The greater cruelty: Either way, Maris would forever be separated from the person she loved.

  Nomi wondered what her own parents would have done if they’d found out that she could read. Would they have reported her, as Maris’s father had threatened? Would they have tried to protect her? Was Maris’s father a monster… or just a citizen of Viridia, doing what anyone in the country would do?

  “What happened to Helena?” Nomi asked.

  After a long moment, Maris answered. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Nomi said, at a loss. Did the Heir know two of his three Graces were unwilling? Would always be unwilling? Maybe that was why he’d chosen them, out of some sadistic desire to make them suffer. Maybe that was what pleased him.

  “In all the stories, women give up everything,” Maris said, her voice tight. “We are always supposed to give. We are never supposed to fight. Why do you think that is?”

  Nomi thought of Queen Vaccaro and her daughters, betrayed by their male advisors and erased from history.

  She thought of the letter hidden in her room.

  Voice low, knowing she was walking on a knife’s edge, she murmured, “Because they’re afraid of what will happen if we do.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  SERINA

  JUST BEFORE LUNCH, a new boat of prisoners arrived on Mount Ruin.

  Cave camp roiled. Whom would Oracle choose to fight?

  Serina chewed on her tasteless bread, trying to imagine it was Nomi’s cinnamon-clove shortbread. Even with strict rationing and the boar meat, supplies were dwindling.

  “If they choose me, I’ll die,” Jacana said softly, staring at her small, empty hands.

  “You’re so fast, Jacana.” Serina squeezed her shoulder. Jacana had “earned” the nickname Mouse, but Serina refused to call her that. For all her slight frame and frightened eyes, the girl often proved quick and resourceful. She had more potential than she gave herself credit for. “I don’t think you need to worry, but if… if Oracle thinks you’re ready, trust her.”

  Petrel’s cheerful face passed through Serina’s mind.

  “Timely advice,” Gia said, her voice tight. She nodded toward Oracle, who was making her way over to them.

  Jacana grasped at Serina’s hands. On her other side, Theodora hissed in a breath. Her long, loose arms wound around her knees, drawing herself together as if she could make herself small, less obvious.

  Serina whispered, “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure them or herself. Her heart jumped to her throat and fluttered like a mad thing, desperate to escape.

  She remembered how much she’d wished the Heir would single her out. Choose her. The glittering gowns, the golden filigree, the fine music… Now she prayed to be invisible.

  Please not Jacana or Gia or—

  “Serina, I’d like to speak with you outside.” Oracle towered over her.

  No. The cave shrank around her. For an instant, she thought about refusing. But the eyes of the entire crew were on her. Jacana released her hands.

  Serina stood up on watery legs. She followed Oracle down the length of the tunnel, through columns of sunlight and deep trenches of shadow, close and cold as a grave. By the time they reached the entrance, the back of Serina’s neck was sticky with sweat and her hands trembled.

  Oracle stopped and squinted into the sun.

  “I’m not ready,” Serina said before the other woman could speak. It was too surreal. This is a nightmare. “The crew needs the food, and I—”

  Oracle broke in. “The first fight after a win, we always pick a freshie. It’s the safest time to test new fighters—the safest time to lose.” She looked toward the distant ocean. “I was going to choose you. You were the best of the freshies, but I didn’t think you’d win.”

  Serina made a sound. Oracle had planned to sacrifice her?

  The woman held up a hand. “Petrel told me not to. She said with just a little more training, you could win. She’d never seen anyone improve as quickly as you.” Oracle met Serina’s eyes at last. “She volunteered to fight in your place.”

  Serina’s heart seized. “I—I—”

  I never asked her to.

  “Petrel wanted me to give you more time, and I have,” Oracle went on. “You’re a thoughtful fighter—some girls use instinct, but you use smarts.” She sighed, and for the first time, Serina saw a crack in the woman’s armor. “No one knows how you fight yet, which will give you an edge. If you’re smart, Grace, you can win.”

  Serina couldn’t draw a full breath. She wanted to beg Oracle to reconsider. But who would be chosen instead? Jacana? Gia? Someone more experienced, another like Petrel, sent to die in her place? There was nothing Serina could say. Begging for her own life meant sacrificing someone else.

  She’d told Jacana to trust Oracle’s judgment. She’d have to take her own advice.

  Oracle seemed to understand her turmoil. She gave Serina’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “Take some time to yourself. It’ll be a couple hours before we head to the ring.”

  The woman disappeared into the cave. Serina stood still for a moment, bands of fear tightening across her chest. Then she headed for the cliffs.

  She didn’t stop until she could see the horizon, weighed down by a heavy bank of cloud. She’d promised herself she would escape. That she’d save Nomi.

  But there hadn’t been enough time.

  Serina stared straight toward where she’d seen the lights of Bellaqua, so far away, and shouted into the screaming wind.

  Eventually, her voice gave out.

  “Feel better?”

  Serina didn’t turn around. “Hi, Val.”

  With a little grunt, she sat down and dangled her legs over the cliff’s edge.

  “You spend a lot of time at the edge of cliffs. You sure you’re not thinking of jumping again?” he asked.

  “Why do you always show up when I’m here?” she asked, staring into the white froth below her feet.

  “I’ve been making the rounds.” Val sat down beside her. “My orders are to let the crews know there’s a fight in two hours.”

  Serina wiped her dirty palms on her pants. “Oracle already knows.”

  “I’m sure they all do.” Val scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it off the cliff into the waves. “But I have my orders.”

  Despite her best efforts, tears skated down Serina’s cheeks. “It’s my day to fight,” she whispered, her throat thick.

  Beside her, Val went still. “Already?”

  Serina nodded. She stared at the waves dying beneath her, destroyed one after another against the cliff. “You were right about me,” she added, her determination failing her. “I am a dead girl.”

  “Go for the crate,” Val said quickly, almost desperately.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Commander’s throwing weapons into the ring today. Knives or bricks—he hasn’t decided yet. But whatever it is, it won’t be a threat. Not like the snake and the wasps.” He turned to her and put his hand on her chin, tipping her head up. He wouldn’t let go until she met his eyes.

  “Don’t avoid the crate, do you hear me?” he said. “Get yourself a weapon. Go in hard and fast with every girl. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t stop until you get the job done.”

  Serina took in every detail of his face—the dark brows, the small cluster of freckles on his left cheek, the urgency of his expression. He really did seem to care whether she won or died.

  “Serina? Are you listening?”

  He was handsome, very handsome. She’d thought that before, but without staring him full in the face, the opinion had been based on fleeting impressions: a curl of his hair, a quirk of his lips, the muscles of his arms. Now she could see clearly, for the fi
rst time, how well his sun-browned cheeks complemented his wide, expressive mouth. How bright and discerning his eyes were. How concerned he looked.

  Serina had never broken the law before. She was in prison for a crime that wasn’t her own. She had never rebelled. Never railed against her world, not like Nomi. And she was about to fight to the death. Probably her death.

  Why follow any of the rules?

  Serina touched Val’s face, her rough palm meeting the smooth skin of his cheek. He stopped talking. She leaned forward slowly, until their foreheads touched. He didn’t move away.

  The warmth of his breath feathered against her lips. Her hand slid back into his hair, drawing him that last bit closer. An electric current flowed through her blood. Her skin tingled. Her heart pulsed in her throat.

  Their lips met, soft and yielding.

  He reached for her.

  She pulled away.

  His hands dropped to the gravel between them as she scrambled to her feet.

  “Wait.” He grabbed her ankle gently, not as if he truly meant to restrain her. She broke the hold easily.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t. Not really. She’d always wondered what kissing felt like. She’d been prepared for the mechanics of it, but not the tingle in her blood or the heat in her belly when his mouth moved against hers.

  “Wait! Serina!” he said again, scrambling to his feet.

  Serina had imagined her first kiss as the start of something, not the end.

  She shouted over her shoulder as she ran, “They call me Grace now.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  NOMI

  NOMI STEPPED ONTO the boat, the belled skirt of her brilliant red dress fanning out in the brisk sea air. A thick gold belt cinched tight around her waist and matched her golden sandals and the long, dangling earrings Angeline had procured for her.

  The handmaiden had dusted her cheeks with golden powder and stained her lips red. It was a dramatic look, more striking than she usually wore, and for the first time, Nomi felt like she looked the part of a Grace.

  But she would always be a rebel.

  The note to Renzo burned against the skin of her breast. She’d tucked it into her bodice while Angeline was in the washroom. Asa had a contact outside the palazzo he would give it to; now she needed to figure out how to steal a private moment with him on a boat filled with revelers and the Superior’s men.

  Nomi glided toward an empty spot along the rail, searching the crowd for Asa. The Superior’s ship was unlike any she’d seen before. It was moored on the ocean side of the palazzo, as it was much too large for the narrow canals of the city. Its wide deck was strung with lights and little tinkling bells. The railings were polished wood, intricately carved with mermaids and leaping fish.

  The top deck was open, with fluttering swaths of white silk strung above. Near the stern, two wrought-iron lifts transported guests to and from the level beneath. Men in white livery operated the ropes and pulleys, ensuring each guest a smooth ride. Other servants wove through the crowd holding trays of fluted glasses and finger foods. In the center of the deck, a small group of musicians played, and around them the Superior’s Graces danced with men he’d chosen to reward or curry favor with. The delegation from Azura was dressed in light blue.

  Nomi reached the open stretch of rail and leaned against it, turning her attention out to sea. The sun had just set, and fingers of light still clung to the edge of the world. Above, stars were winking to life.

  When she turned around, she noticed Asa on the other side of the boat. His eyes caught hers immediately. Warmth spread from her cheeks to her stomach.

  A man sidled up beside him and said something. Asa’s mouth moved in answer, but he didn’t stop looking at Nomi.

  A figure blocked her line of sight, and a whisper of a voice blew ice into her veins. “Good evening, Nomi.”

  The Superior.

  Nomi’s lungs froze. She curtsied, and suddenly, all her former awkwardness came roaring back. She was a lowly handmaiden again, out of place and ungainly in the glittering assemblage. With a treasonous note stuffed down her dress.

  “Ines tells me your training is progressing,” the Superior said. He took her hand and held it tightly, his bony fingers like iron bars. He pulled her arm up and indicated that he wanted her to spin. She turned slowly, her hand twisting in his grasp, making her feel even more at his mercy.

  His scent—orange oil and antiseptic—choked her. The disease that was slowly killing him had thinned his face and grayed his hair, but it hadn’t extinguished the icy flames of his eyes.

  “I suppose I can see what my son finds intriguing about you.” He pulled her closer, cornering her. Nomi’s throat tightened. Her fingers tingled in his grip. His nails bit into her skin. “You’ve a spirit begging to be broken.”

  She couldn’t stand it. She yanked her hand free.

  The Superior’s eyes widened. His hand slid around her waist, and for the first time she was happy for her corset because it felt like armor, a barrier between them. His other hand encircled her wrist, so tightly she couldn’t pull free. It didn’t matter if Malachi wanted to tame her or not; the Superior did. And he would, whenever he chose.

  Even if she belonged to his son.

  After a short, excruciating dance, the Superior released her and inclined his head. Nomi gave a shaky curtsy. It wasn’t the boat’s rocking that made her legs suddenly unsteady.

  “Dance with Signor Flavia,” he ordered. Another set of hands gripped her. A barrel-chested man twirled her across the deck. His sweat-damp chest pressed against hers, and his wine-soaked breath clogged her lungs.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice said over her shoulder. For a split second, she thought it was Asa. But it was his brother.

  Signor Flavia stopped spinning her. “Your Eminence,” he said, bowing.

  Another set of hands drew Nomi away, as if she were a pipe passed between friends. But the Heir didn’t dance with her. He led her to the railing, where the sea breeze swept across her heated cheeks.

  Malachi was so much larger than Asa. Muscled, where Asa was wiry. Imposing, where Asa was friendly. “You’re shaking. Does the boat unsettle you?” Malachi asked.

  Nomi was afraid to look him in the eye. What if he could see her deception? Her hatred?

  “I am overheated from dancing, Your Eminence,” she said.

  “Your hands are cold.”

  She pulled them from his, galvanized into looking at him. “Are they?” she said, her voice tight.

  His short brown hair was freshly cut. He wore a navy suit with thin lines of gold thread running through it. The sharp planes of his face, his dark eyes, told her nothing.

  Did he enjoy her discomfort? Did he revel in the knowledge that she was at his mercy?

  He was quiet for so long, she said, “What are you thinking?” just to break the silence. She expected him to tell her it was none of her concern.

  But he cocked his head, still studying her, and said, “I think you would have been better suited to another time.”

  Nomi huffed out a breath. “What does that mean?”

  Impertinent. Why could she never hold her tongue?

  He eyed her narrowly, almost as if he were gauging her reaction. Then his gaze focused suddenly on her arm. He grabbed her hand again, raising it to reveal the purple half-moons on her wrist where the Superior’s fingernails had dug into her skin. He stared at it for a long time. “Did my father do that?” he asked at last.

  “Are you surprised?” Nomi looked at the sky, now hung with stars, bright as a million crystal chandeliers, and wished she could be up there, far away.

  “You are not his to touch.”

  Nomi’s eyes widened at the undercurrent of anger beneath Malachi’s words. But of course. She understood.

  It was a question of property.

  Her fury rising, she said, “Because I am yours to touch, you mean.”

  His gaze dropped from her face for a second. If she didn’t
know better, she’d think she’d shamed him. Then his brows rose. “You have something.…” he said instead, and then faltered. He pointed toward her bosom.

  Nomi glanced down and lost her breath. A corner of the letter was peeking out of her bodice.

  Her face flamed. Her heart stopped. Her brain scrambled. She covered the paper with her hand. “A—a part of my dress, Your Eminence. So embarrassing.” She curtsied and excused herself.

  She hurried to the lift, weaving around the circle of dancers, her head down. Once in the lift, she turned, just as the ornate metalwork closed. She looked out at the graceful dancers, twirling around the musicians in the center. A flash of green flew past—Maris in the arms of an older, portly gentleman with red lips and a sheen of sweat along his brow. Her eyes were blank and unfocused, her movements precise and controlled. She was smiling, but there was misery in every line of her body.

  If Malachi cared so much about the Superior touching his Graces, why didn’t it bother him that other men did too?

  With a whoosh, the lift dropped, obscuring Nomi’s view.

  Hurriedly, she stuffed the edge of the letter out of sight. How could she have been so careless?

  The small metal box stopped, and the door slid open. There were fewer torches here. More shadows. It was quieter, the music and laughter from above muffled. The narrow passage, paneled with wood, closed in around her.

  The other lift swished down. Its doors opened, revealing a palace guard, wide and weathered as a mountain. She stepped back, head down, to give him room. Down here, the gentle rock of the boat was more pronounced. Her stomach tumbled into her throat.

  The guard didn’t walk past.

  “Follow me,” he said gruffly. She’d become accustomed to the silence of the men in the Graces’ chambers. His voice sent panic through her. She followed him, even as every muscle strained to pull her the other way. Her heart pounded, escape, escape, through her blood.

  They passed one servant. She could hear laughter and the thud of feet from the deck above, but saw no one else.

  Bats exploded in Nomi’s belly when the guard opened a door and gestured her into a tiny room. He left her there, alone, in the dark.