“It is not weak to want to fight back!” Serina shouted. Until she’d come here, she’d never questioned Viridia’s laws. Even when she’d first arrived, she’d accepted the fights. They were awful and terrifying and inhumane… but they were the way things worked here. They were the reality they were all forced to endure. Just like the reality of the Graces. Just like the reality of Viridia’s laws.
Women were forbidden to read.
Women were forbidden to choose their husbands, their jobs, their futures.
Forbidden to dive for pearls or sell goods at market to help their families.
Forbidden to cut their hair unless a man told them to.
Forbidden to think for themselves.
Forbidden to choose.
But why?
“My mother raised me to never trust other women because we would always be in competition. But it’s not true. Look at how we take care of each other here.” She found Tremor in the group of women. “We heal each other.” She looked at Jacana. “We share food.” She thought of Petrel. “We die for each other.” Tears were building behind her eyes.
“Serina—” Oracle warned.
But Serina couldn’t stop. A wave was building in her chest, and if she didn’t speak, it would destroy her. “Why do we let them do this to us?” she asked, and she was thinking of more than the guard’s barbaric fights. “Why do we let them break us? Starve us? Punish us for being ourselves? Is it because we think we’re sweet, delicate flowers and we let them?” Her voice rose. “I don’t think we’ve ever been what they want. That’s why we’re here in the first place.” She remembered what Oracle had said when she’d arrived, and suddenly, the words meant even more now, because Serina believed them.
“We are not flowers,” she said firmly. “Like you said, Oracle, we are concrete and barbed wire. We are iron.” Serina stared at the women surrounding her. “We are smart, and we are dangerous. The guards know that. They know we have the power to overthrow them, if we’d just work together. We need to stop killing each other and fight them.”
No one said anything, but Ember’s eyes blazed. A couple of the women had stepped closer to hear. Serina found Jacana again. Her friend’s eyes were wide, her bony hands clenched into fists at her sides. If they worked together, if they just—
“Get out.” Oracle’s words cut through the silence like a blade.
They pierced Serina to the core. “But, Oracle—”
“You submitted,” Oracle growled. “You were weak and you betrayed your crew. The punishment for submission is banishment. You are on your own, Grace. Mount Ruin will have you now.”
No one objected.
It was her second death sentence, Serina realized—the Superior had never expected her to survive Mount Ruin, and now, without food, shelter, or water, she wouldn’t. Serina pressed her injured arm into her stomach and noticed that somehow she’d held on to the knife. With a last glance at Jacana, at Oracle, she turned toward the tunnel. Women stepped aside to give her space.
Serina couldn’t be sorry. She knew she was right. She’d die for it, maybe, but dying on her own terms was better than living as a murderer. Her sister would be proud.
Nomi wasn’t the only rebel now.
TWENTY-EIGHT
NOMI
IT WAS ONLY Nomi’s second time outside the palazzo. The fresh air beyond the palace grounds should have been liberating. Instead, it sat in her lungs, as heavy and thick as oil. Cassia chattered excitedly as the boat cut across the canal to Bellaqua’s grand piazza, where the Heir awaited them. Maris looked like she wanted to tell the other girl to be quiet. But Nomi could only stare silently across the water and try to keep her expression neutral.
The note was again in her bodice.
Asa’s description of his contact ran through her mind on an endless loop: His name is Trevi. He wears a blue waistcoat. He works a stall of knives. He won’t get close to the carriages.
She still had no idea how she was going to manage to sneak away and find him. If he sold ribbons or fabric, she could feign interest in his wares. But knives? Why would a Grace examine a stall of knives?
And this was just the first hurdle of their plan. Assuming Luca passed the letter to Renzo with haste, as she’d requested, and Renzo made it back to Bellaqua before the Heir’s birthday, there were still several more steps to their plan, each with their own risks and uncertainty.
First, she would have to write another letter with explicit instructions on what to do the night of the ball. Asa would have to find a way to deliver it. She would tell Renzo to make the assassination attempt look threatening but without, in any way, putting the Superior in actual danger. He would have to simulate a struggle with Asa, who would come to his father’s aid. In the process, Renzo had to reveal Malachi as the man who hired him. Then he would need to escape the palace.
Second, Nomi would have to plant evidence in Malachi’s chambers: a letter from the assassin accepting the job.
And finally, on the day of the party, Asa would have to persuade his father to retire to an antechamber during the festivities, to facilitate the simulated attack.
If all of that happened as planned, Asa would immediately point the finger at Malachi, and subsequently find the additional evidence—the letter—in his room.
She’d thought it a risky, complicated, but reasonable plan when they’d dreamed it up that night on the terrace. But now, in the harsh light of day, with the letter pressing into her breast, it seemed absolutely ridiculous. Because all of that, all of that, hinged on her having a moment to herself to speak to a strange man in a crowded market. It was the first step, and likely the one that would kill all her hopes.
Nomi fought back a wave of nausea.
“Are you well?” Maris asked, putting a hand on Nomi’s arm. “You look quite ill.”
Nomi tried to clear her mind, but her stomach still rolled. Dark clouds crowded above the city buildings. “Thunderstorms terrify me,” she said faintly, nodding toward the threatening sky. It was true, and a testament to her other worries that she hadn’t noticed the weather until now.
Maris rubbed her arm reassuringly. “Those are just rain clouds, and still far away. We’ve had clouds linger like that on the horizon for days. It probably won’t even rain.”
Cassia broke in. “You’re afraid of thunderstorms?”
Nomi gritted her teeth.
With a little thud, the gondolier docked the boat at the piazza. In the square, a large carriage painted in black and gold waited, the Heir and his driver standing at attention beside it. The tall black horses snorted and shook their manes. Beyond the carriage, the piazza was filled with small carts: vendors selling fresh fruit, fabrics, even whole slaughtered pigs.
Nomi was the first off the boat. She wandered toward the market, endeavoring to look interested in the wares being sold, while her eyes searched frantically for a short man in a blue waistcoat.
She saw the knives first.
Silver flashing in the sun, with hilts of twisted metal inset with gems, the weapons were pieces of art. The cart was tucked between a stall of meat pies and one with racks of finely made gloves.
“Nomi!” Malachi grabbed her arm, and she flinched. “The others are waiting.”
The Heir led her toward the carriage. Inside her mind, Nomi wailed. She couldn’t risk pulling free of Malachi’s grip, but oh, she wanted to. This was her chance, most likely the only one she’d have. She had to put her head down to compose her face and hide her dismay.
The black-and-gold carriage was covered but open on the sides, with two cushioned benches that ran its length and a polished wooden floor. The driver leapt into the seat up front, just behind the two horses.
Cassia was waiting for the Heir. He handed her up into the carriage, and then Maris.
He helped Nomi up last, his hand warm and solid, and then sat beside her on the bench. Nomi was immediately aware of the Heir’s leg pressing against hers, their knees knocking together as the carriage moved
slowly across the cobbled piazza. She watched the small stall of knives and the small man with the blue waistcoat out of the window until they disappeared from view. She wanted to scream.
You have one more chance, she reminded herself, trying to stave off the wave of hopelessness threatening to crush her. When the carriage returns. One more chance.
“How are you this morning, Nomi?” the Heir asked. Today he was wearing a thin white shirt and soft leather trousers. In other circumstances, she might have thought he looked handsome.
“I’m well, Your Eminence,” Nomi said, trying to sound as if it were true.
“Ines says we’re to visit a perfumery?” Cassia said, edging into the conversation. She leaned toward the Heir, her curves on full display in her orange-and-yellow gown.
Malachi nodded.
“Do you have a favorite scent, Your Eminence?” Cassia asked. “The other day, you mentioned you don’t much like fresh flowers.” She flaunted her knowledge of the Heir to the girls she saw as her competition, but Nomi knew, even if Cassia didn’t, that the blond-haired girl was the only one who wanted to be here. Maris and Nomi would lose no sleep if the Heir showered only Cassia with his attention.
Nomi felt Malachi’s imperceptible shrug. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Then we’ll have to guess,” Cassia said coquettishly. “Perhaps one of us will find the perfect fragrance to entice you.”
“Maybe,” he said, smiling noncommittally. He turned his attention to Maris, and Nomi caught the disappointment in Cassia’s eyes before the girl smoothed her expression.
“Maris,” Malachi said. “What do you enjoy most about the palace?”
Maris smiled, letting her hair fall back from her face. She looked like a doll: flawless and empty. “The opportunity to spend time with you, Your Eminence.”
His arm tensed against Nomi’s. “Of course,” he replied.
When he made no further effort at conversation, Nomi shifted to watch the city trundle past. The carriage clomped down narrow roadways and clattered over arched bridges. Red-flowered vines climbed along nooks and crannies in the stone houses, and laundry hung above the streets like windless sails. The dark gray clouds built higher on the west side of the city. The carriage would travel down a long stretch of cobbled road with nothing but sun above, only to turn a corner and reveal an ominous creep of cloud.
Nomi hoped Maris was right and it was only rain coming. She’d been scared of thunderstorms since she was a child. She could remember with visceral horror the storms that would come roaring through the valley, flinging rain sideways and shaking their apartment with every crack of thunder. Back then, Serina would climb into bed with her and they would ride it out together. Serina would sing her lullabies, and Nomi would tremble until long after the storm had passed.
With a clatter, the carriage rolled to a stop outside a glass-fronted shop. Malachi climbed down and reached up a hand to help each Grace. Nomi alighted on the cobbles and tilted, her shoe catching on the uneven ground. The Heir steadied her, pulling her a little closer than she liked.
He had none of the coiled energy or liquid grace of Asa. He was strong and solid and intensely focused. She wilted under the weight of his gaze.
How could she sneak off on her errand without him seeing, without him noticing? It would be impossible.
When they entered the perfumery, Nomi flinched at its luminous glow, brighter than the hazy morning outside. The large room was filled with small, mirrored tables arranged in precise rows. More mirrors hung from the walls, reflecting back at each other. It gave the space a surreal feel, as if one could step into the mirrored wall and continue forever.
On each table rested a small cut-crystal bottle, a bowl of coffee beans, and a jar of cotton puffs. Cassia looked around with her hands pressed to her chest and giggled with delight.
Nomi and Maris huddled together near the door.
“Perfume makes me sneeze,” Maris whispered.
“That could be useful as a deterrent,” Nomi replied under her breath.
Maris made an odd noise, part laugh and part snort.
Malachi glanced back at them. Nomi fought to contain the hysterical laughter bubbling up her throat.
At that moment, the perfumer emerged from a back room and strode quickly to the Heir’s side. The man was short and portly, with a tuft of white hair encircling the bald crown of his head and round spectacles resting on his nose. He bowed deeply. “Your Eminence, it is my honor that you have chosen to visit today.”
“Thank you, Signor. I’m sorry my father couldn’t accompany us, as was his wish,” the Heir replied.
Malachi turned to his Graces. “The signor has graciously agreed to share his space with us for a few hours. Please sample the perfumes and find one that suits you. When you’ve made your selection, inform me and it will be my pleasure to arrange a bottle for your personal use.”
Graciously agreed… Nomi stifled a laugh. As if the signor had a choice.
Nomi curtsied with the others. She was about to turn to Maris and ask where she wanted to begin, when the Heir stepped in front of her. He held out his hand, all polite gentleman, and gestured to the nearest table. “Shall we find a scent that suits you?”
Reluctantly, Nomi placed her hand in his. She glanced over her shoulder. Maris stared fixedly at the selections on a nearby table, while Cassia dabbed some perfume onto a cotton puff and sniffed delicately.
Malachi held out a damp bit of cotton. “What about this one?”
Nomi leaned a little closer to smell it and wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not. Smells like rotten peaches.”
The Heir raised a brow and held the puff to his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You say rotten, I would say… overripe.”
She forced a laugh. He moved on to the next table. She trailed behind, annoyed and bemused at the same time. She hadn’t expected him to sample the perfumes with her. She’d assumed he would stand off to the side and watch his Graces with that terrifyingly intense gaze of his.
Nomi smelled orange oil, which made her skin crawl at the memory of the Superior grabbing her on the boat. When Malachi offered it, she just shook her head. There was plumeria, which was sweet and simple but not popular with the Heir, and a bright, grassy scent that Nomi didn’t mind but didn’t love either.
Cassia giggled and preened her way through the shop in a veiled bid for attention, but Nomi found herself taking the task seriously. Maybe because focusing on the hints of spice and sandalwood distracted her from the letter hidden in her bodice. The hopeless task she nonetheless still hoped she could perform.
“This one is nice,” Malachi said, offering her another cotton.
This scent she couldn’t identify. It made her think of cold, snowy evenings in Lanos, with a hint of wood smoke and something crisp and bracing. Tears pricked her eyes.
“May I have this one, Your Eminence?” she asked softly. She dabbed a little on her wrists and breathed in the scent again. “It reminds me of home.”
Malachi bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Nomi said, with a small curtsy. “And thank you for bringing us on this outing, Your Eminence. It was very generous of you.”
He shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be cooped up in the palazzo.”
“Don’t you mean caged?” Nomi said without thinking.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Malachi’s attention sharpened. “Is that how you feel?”
“No, of course not,” Nomi covered quickly. “The palace is beautiful. A dream. It’s just been so long since I’ve left its walls and I’ve always wanted to see Bellaqua. It’s been a gift to see it today.”
And suddenly, Nomi knew how to get to Trevi.
“In fact, Your Eminence, I… I would like to give you a gift as well,” she said shyly. She glanced sidelong at him in time to see surprise flash across his face. “To show my appreciation. May I pick something out fo
r you at the market?”
She held her breath. Would he find a trinket from market beneath him? Would he question her motives?
Please.
“You don’t owe me anything, Nomi,” he said, and for once his voice didn’t sound gruff or distant.
“I know I don’t,” she said a little too quickly. “But surely I can be kind? You were kind to me today.”
He rubbed his chin. “Very well. If you wish.”
With a bow, he shifted his attention to Cassia, and then Maris. By the time they had chosen their perfumes, the sky had darkened and thunder rumbled in the distance.
As Malachi helped her into the carriage, Nomi fought her mounting panic. This wouldn’t work if it began raining before they arrived at the piazza.
The ride was quiet, the four of them shifting with the bumps of the cobbled street. Nomi kept an eye on the swollen clouds and the shards of lightning that crackled within them.
The carriage stopped a few minutes later. When the Heir helped her down, Nomi didn’t pull her hand away so quickly this time. This ruse depended on her acting softened toward him, on him believing she actually wanted to do something nice for him. It might even serve her well for her second task, securing an invitation to his room so she could plant the damning letter.
She remembered something her mother had said once to Serina, years ago: “Your ability to mask your true feelings, your true self, will be your greatest weapon.”
“I need a weapon?” Serina had asked.
Their mother had lifted her chin. “Every woman does.”
As Malachi helped down the other Graces, Nomi headed to the row of carts in the piazza’s center. The air hung thick around her. To her dismay, some vendors had already left, probably to avoid the storm, which threatened to break at any moment. Trevi was packing up his knives.
No.
But the glove vendor next to the knife stand was still open. She hurried over. Malachi would follow shortly, she was sure. He was probably watching her now.
Grace and Fury Page 17
