This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Mara Fitzgerald
Jacket art copyright © 2020 by I Love Dust. Jacket copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: October 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fitzgerald, Mara, author.
Title: Beyond the ruby veil / Mara Fitzgerald.
Description: First edition. | New York : Hyperion, 2020. | Series: Beyond the ruby veil ; 1 | Audience: Ages 12 and up. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: “After Emanuela Ragno kills the one person in Occhia who can create water, she must find a way to save her city from dying of thirst”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020017687 (print) | LCCN 2020017688 (ebook) | ISBN 9781368052139 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781368053662 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F5732 Bey 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.F5732 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017687
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017688
ISBNs: 978-1-368-05213-9 (hardcover), 978-1-368-05366-2 (ebook)
E3-20200916-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
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ONE
I’VE FINALLY BROKEN HER. TODAY REALLY IS MY SPECIAL DAY.
My nursemaid brought it on herself, of course. If she’d had any sense, she’d have gotten rid of me when I was a helpless infant who couldn’t fight back. Instead, the poor sap tended to me, letting me grow and flourish and outmatch her. That’s why she’s standing in the middle of my bedroom, clutching at her face, realizing that she’s never going to bludgeon me into the shape of a docile young lady and that she’s wasted her life trying.
“It’s hideous, Paola,” I inform her as I tear the silk rose in my hands to pieces. “I’m doing us all a favor.”
“Emanuela Ragno.” She barely breathes my name, like the words are cursed. “This gown has been in your mamma’s family for over a hundred years.”
“Yes, and it looks it,” I say. “Smells it, too. Did you really think I was going to walk down the aisle in some musty pile of lace?”
“Musty pile of lace?” she echoes in disbelief. “Musty pile of—So help me, Emanuela, if there’s one day you should wear a musty pile of lace, it’s your wedding day!”
There’s no time I should ever wear this monstrosity. The black skirts are so heavy I can barely move. The sleeves are enormous and puffy. The train stretches out of my bedroom and into the hall. The first time I laid eyes on the gown, I told my mamma it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. She sighed and opined about how it’s been passed down on her side, the House of Rosa, for generations—hence the red silk roses tastelessly stuck to every surface. She rhapsodized about my spiritual connection to the women of our family and how wonderful it would be to see me in traditional clothing, for once. Occhian people love tradition. They love doing the exact same things every other person has done since the city began.
I tried the gown on. I didn’t feel a spiritual connection to the women of my family. I felt like a little girl buried in hideous fabric. I also felt itchy, due to the gigantic silk rose smack in the middle of my chest. But I agreed to wear the gown, and my mamma shed a few tears, and we carried on as usual.
Then I bided my time until this very moment. Just as my nursemaid was putting the finishing touches on my outfit, I grabbed the offending rose and ripped it off. Now the fragile silk of my bodice is a ragged mess.
And just down the street, the cathedral bells are ringing. Everyone in the city is already inside, waiting for me, but I’m here, and Paola is in front of me, spiraling into hysterics.
“Your mamma got married in this!” she says. “And her mamma, and her mamma’s mamma—you’re her only daughter, and she’s spent her whole life praying that she would live to see you married, and you just—”
“Calm down, old woman,” I say, tearing another petal off the rose and dropping it onto the very satisfying pile at my feet. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Calm down?” she screeches. “We’re—”
“Late to the wedding? Then why are we just standing around?”
“Because there’s a—”
“A massive hole in my bodice?” I say. “This is an improvement. Look how flattering my corset is.”
Paola leaps to block the doorway, fists clenched. “Emanuela, don’t you dare—I suppose you think you can talk me into this, just like you talked me into the gown with the slit. Not this time, young lady. Weddings are sacred, and you are not parading in front of the whole city with your fruits on display like—”
“Oh?” I drop the last of the rose onto the carpet. “How are you going to stop me?”
We stare each other
