“Stop, Emanuela,” he says. “Don’t try to stand up. Hold this.”
He puts the lantern in my hands, then scoops me up once more. I watch as we descend down a long, narrow hall of stone. The walls are interrupted every few steps by arched doorways leading into darkness.
I’ve never seen this place with my own eyes, but I know what it is. It’s Occhia’s catacombs.
Long ago, people used the catacombs to memorialize the dead. Everyone got a small spot where their family could visit and leave offerings. My history tutors told me that we stopped the custom because the watercrea wanted us to focus on the city, not on the people who’d already left it. My nursemaid told me that most families had started to avoid the catacombs even before that. The halls of memorials were getting crowded, stretching deeper and deeper under the city, and sometimes, people went away for quiet reflection and never came back.
Now the doors to the catacombs sit abandoned in alleys all over the city, marked with a holy symbol. A couple of months ago, my rascally little cousins got in trouble for touching the door behind the House of Conti. They never would have been brave enough—or desperate enough—to actually open it. They’ve heard the stories.
Ale takes us into a side hall and stumbles around a few corners before he comes to a halt, wheezing. He sets me on the ground, and I slump against the cold wall, the lantern between us. We sit there in our little bubble of light, and for a long moment, he just stares at me.
The two of us have spent our entire lives with family or chaperones a moment away. We’ve never been so alone with each other, and we’ve certainly never been so far from the rest of our city. The quiet makes my ears ring.
“The catacombs?” I say. “Really, Ale? I told you to go to my family’s house. We could have snuck in the back, if we were quick.”
Ale doesn’t say anything.
“Well, I’m not staying here,” I continue. “For one thing, I can’t work in the presence of such…”
I glance over his head at the row of memorial nooks carved into the wall. They’re filled with cobwebs. My nursemaid has a lot of dramatic tales about spirits who were sinful in life and found themselves unable to return to the veil. According to her, they roam the catacombs, trapped and furious.
“Uninspired decor,” I finish, turning my eyes away. “We need to know what’s happening in the city. We need food. We need—”
The next word turns into a knot in my throat.
“Water?” Ale’s voice is barely a whisper.
Water. We need water.
“The city has lots of water,” I say. “It’s stored under the tower. Haven’t you ever looked at a map?”
“And what are we going to do when that runs out?” Ale says.
“We’ll…”
The watercrea has been making our water since the city began. There’s no other way. Everyone knows that. I know that.
“We’ll just…” I try again.
The watercrea is dead. The watercrea is dead, and I killed her, and everyone saw me do it.
Occhians spend a lot of time reminding one another how precious our existence is. In the middle of the endless veil, God created a tiny pocket of life for us. The most important thing we can do is serve the city and keep it the way it’s always been, because the city is fragile.
That’s what the priests say. That’s what my mamma says. I’ve always thought it was a load of nonsense. There’s no point in being alive unless you’re going to do more than everyone before you has done. Things should get better, not stay the same. And our city isn’t so fragile that it could be destroyed by one person.
Our city can’t possibly be that fragile.
I swallow hard, and I force myself to look Ale in the eyes.
“We’ll find another way,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. “We don’t need her.”
For a long moment, he’s silent.
“The city is almost a thousand years old,” he says finally.
“I know,” I say.
“We’ve always had the watercrea,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
He’s silent again.
“Don’t look so grim, Ale,” I say. “My papá will help. He can get us into the records of Parliament. Surely, in the past thousand years, somebody has—”
“How can you be so sure?”
Ale’s voice is loud, and it startles me into silence. I can’t remember the last time he raised his voice at me.
“If we can’t find more water, we’re all going to die,” he presses on. “Our families are going to die. The whole city is going to die. And that includes you, Emanuela. You realize that, don’t you?”
My heart is pounding in my ears. “Yes,” I say, and I’m impressed by how calm I manage to sound.
“And does it concern you?” he says. “At all?”
I shrug. “It’s not like I could have stayed in the tower.”
“Well—” he says.
He cuts himself off. But he has more to say. I can see it on his face.
I narrow my eyes. “Well?”
“You—” He’s floundering and avoiding my gaze. “You got your omens. Even if they weren’t spreading very quickly, it still means—”
“It means nothing,” I snap. “Nothing. Do you understand?”
“But the law—” he says. “You can’t just—”
“I’ve had an omen since I was seven,” I say. “I just kept it hidden, and guess what? It never spread. It still hasn’t.”
Ale looks stricken.
“You—” His voice is suddenly small and betrayed. “You’ve—had it since…”
I’m not going to apologize for keeping this secret from him for the last ten years, even if we have spent every day of those ten years together. I had my reasons.
“The watercrea tried to kill me,” I say. “It wasn’t some kind of noble mercy killing, or whatever it is you tell yourself she does. It was murder.”
“But…” he says. “Emanuela, are you sure—”
“Am I sure about what?” I say. “The mark on my own skin? Am I sure about
