I stuff what little remains of the bread in my pocket and clutch the water tighter to my chest. I look at Paola.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re going to find a way.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can’t read the expression on her face. I wonder if she’s thinking that I look like a starved shell of a person, not the savior of a city. I wonder if she can tell how much effort it’s taking for me to lift my chin and exude confidence. I wonder if she’s remembering the last time I told her I had everything under control.
She sighs. She moves closer and gently pushes my mangled hair out of my face, and it feels like I’m back in my childhood bedroom and everything is going to be fine.
“I believe you,” she says. “God help me, but I do.”
She hands Ale the lantern. “Go that way,” she says, pointing. “I’ll send the guards in the opposite direction. There are exits closer to the edge of the city. If—if you just keep running… maybe they won’t catch you.”
She scurries off into the shadows. Ale and I turn to find ourselves facing a long hall and, at the end, black nothingness.
The guards’ footsteps are getting louder. Ale looks at me, and I can see the fear on his face. It’s one thing to step into the catacombs—ancient, unmapped, and unknown—and take a few turns here or there. It’s quite another to dive into their depths.
I reach over and take his hand. It’s cold.
“Let’s run,” I say, with the assurance of someone who knows where she’s going and has the strength to get there.
And we run.
Two years ago, Ale and I were at a party at the House of Donati. I had just finished a lively round of sparring with Chiara Bianchi. She ran off to cry somewhere, and Ale and I made our way back to the refreshments table. We were surrounded, as usual, by a throng of younger nobles trying to curry my favor. The girls watched me load crostini onto my plate, then took modest amounts for themselves. They had all attempted to copy my elaborate braided hairstyle, with varying degrees of success. I eyed them again, trying to decide who I would choose to receive the small jeweled comb in my clutch. I liked to pass out rewards. It kept them on their toes.
“You’re so right about Signorina Bianchi,” Valentina Moretti told me. “She does look like a sad potato dressed in old bedsheets. You’re dressed much better. And you’re much prettier.”
“Everyone thinks so,” Giulia Cassano said quickly.
“I am prettier than her, aren’t I, Signor Morandi?” I said, just to torment Ale.
“What?” he said in a panic, like the question was life-or-death. “Yes. Yes? Yes.”
He took a gulp of his wine. He was already on his second drink, which was strange. He usually didn’t partake. I didn’t drink, for a variety of reasons—my doctors discouraged it, I preferred to stay sharp, I had other ways of entertaining myself—and Ale never did anything unless I did it first.
“You’re gushing. Do try to get ahold of yourself.” I beckoned him, and he obediently leaned down so I could adjust his bowtie, which was dark purple to match my gown.
Valentina sighed. “The two of you look so good together. You’re a perfect match.”
I glowed. I agreed, just not in the way Valentina thought. The other girls were engaged to the group of man-children across the room, who were rambling on about government business they didn’t understand and throwing olives into each other’s wine and generally being dull. Ale was also a man-child, of course. But he was at my side, listening to me, like a true husband and business partner.
I opened my mouth to give Valentina an appropriately haughty response, but then I caught sight of Ale’s face.
There were tears welling in his eyes. And now they were running down his cheeks.
Everybody followed my gaze. They stopped, crostini halfway to their mouths, and gawked.
Without a word of explanation, Ale turned away and ran out the parlor door. Giulia leaned over and whispered something to her neighbor. They both giggled.
Everyone else only knew three things about Alessandro Morandi: He was rich, he always had his nose in a book, and he’d gotten so nervous during First Rites that he’d vomited in front of the whole cathedral. They didn’t know what it was like to be his best friend. They didn’t know that he scrutinized the barrage of daily letters I wrote him and responded to my every inane thought. They didn’t know that he made me feel so much better just by being in a room, like a cornerstone I could always return to. And somehow, they still didn’t know that he belonged to me, which meant they weren’t allowed to touch him.
“Signorina Cassano,” I said, “your wine looks intriguing. May I try it?”
Giulia handed me her glass. I dumped it down the front of her dress and swept out of the parlor.
I found Ale in the exact sort of place where he always took shelter—the manor’s library, sitting on the floor with his back to a bookshelf. I sat down next to him, tried to think of something to say, and came up empty. I hadn’t seen him cry since we were children.
“Is everyone laughing at me?” he whispered.
“Of course not,” I said. “They know better.”
He furiously wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“What, do you think you made me look bad?” I say. “That’s impossible.”
His mouth trembled again. “No, it’s… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like everyone else is exactly who they’re supposed to be, and I’m just… not.”
A strange feeling, almost like foreboding, crept over me.
“What does that mean?” I said.
Another tear rolled down his cheek. “I’m going to be awful at being the grand duke—”
“But you have me,” I said automatically.
His face crumpled. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Instantly, I was convinced this meant his parents were
