I shake myself. The watercrea is gone, and she’s never coming back. She’s taken up enough space in my thoughts, and I’m not going to give her any more.
Esteemed seamstress Tatienne du Brodeur is making her way to one of the manors down the street. As she knocks on the door, she glances at us one more time. I quickly turn my attention to the statue, like I’ve already forgotten about our encounter, and wait for her to disappear inside.
Then I head toward the nearest manor. The door to the kitchen is propped open in the alley. Next to it is a window. I peek over the sill to find a dozen servants bustling around, preparing dinner. There’s a vase of white roses sitting within arm’s reach, so I knock it over in very dramatic fashion.
My little distraction works even better than I expected. Apparently, it’s not the first thing that’s been broken this evening. Everyone blames the same kitchen boy, despite the fact that he happened to be across the room. Said kitchen boy blames ghosts, and when the room is at its noisiest, I grab Ale and pull him inside. We’re able to quietly slip through a nearby doorway into the rest of the servants’ quarters.
It takes a minute to find the room where servants do laundry and mend clothes. In Occhia, I know from snooping around in my own house, clothes are carefully spot-scrubbed. But here, of course, they do it to excess. There’s a massive tub of soapy water on the floor. I shut the door and lock it. I sort through the nearby piles of clothes and pick out something for Ale that’s respectable and relatively clean-smelling. I spend admittedly too much time on my own outfit. I find a not-hideous green day gown, but the neckline is too high and frilly, so I have to make a few quick alterations. I also take a black handkerchief that I can tie around my hair, because I have no illusions that it looks like the hair of a renowned seamstress.
When we’re both changed, I inspect Ale. His hair is damp, but more or less patted back into its aristocratic coif. His pants—the longest ones I could find—are too short. He looks extremely self-conscious about it. In other words, he’s as good as he’s going to get.
I pack up the sewing kit on the table, making sure it has several pairs of scissors. I slip an additional small but very sharp pair into my pocket, for good measure.
“There’s a mirror out in the hall,” I say. “I’ll just go admire my new gown and tie on this handkerchief, and then we can—”
“Um,” Ale says. He’s staring at me.
“What?” I adjust my neckline. “It’s not even that scandalous. It’s like you’ve never seen anything else I’ve ever worn.”
“Just, um… hold on.” He roots around the room until he finds a washcloth. He dips it into the soapy water and comes at me.
I back up. “What are you doing? Don’t get me wet.”
“Just…” He won’t let up. “There’s just some dust from the catacombs on you. I can—”
I squirm out of his grip and snatch the washcloth away.
“Emanuela,” he says.
I’m already pushing the door open. “I can do it myself. You’re not my nursemaid, Ale—”
As soon as I look in the mirror, it becomes glaringly obvious why he was trying to clean me up.
My face is gaunt and my cheeks are hollow. My hair is in absolute tatters. I knew it was bad, but it’s far worse than I’d imagined. There are pieces touching my collarbone and pieces so short they’re sticking straight up. There’s dried blood on my neck, smeared around the wound where the watercrea’s needle went in. It’s definitely going to leave a scar.
This isn’t how I’m supposed to look. I’m supposed to look like a girl who can do anything, not a girl who’s been broken and cobbled back together.
I try to wipe the dirt off my face. It barely helps.
Ale appears at my side. His fingers brush my hair, and I jerk away, sharp and defensive. Undaunted apparently, he reaches over to pull the washcloth out of my hand. “Let me try,” he says.
He takes me back into the laundry room. He wipes me off again, then fusses with my hair as I clutch the sewing kit and stare at the buttons on his shirt. He smells sweaty. I can only imagine how I smell.
He ties the handkerchief on for me and steps back.
I pat my head. “Is it all covered? Do I look… normal?”
It pains me to even say. I don’t want to struggle for normal. I want to look better than everyone else.
Ale smiles. The disconcerting thing about growing up with my best friend is that he’s somehow every age at once. I’ll spot his lanky figure down the street and think he’s an actual adult man and have a moment of panic. Then he’ll beam at me the way he’s beaming now, and he’s a little boy.
“You’re the prettiest girl I know,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “And I can’t live without your approval.”
Outside, I can hear footsteps. Cabinets are opening and plates are clinking. The servants must be starting to set the table for dinner. We open the laundry room window and quietly shimmy out.
A few minutes later, we’re standing at the bottom of the cathedral steps. The veil overhead has sunk into a deep red, and the city around us has gone quiet. In Occhia, this is the time when noble families are in their parlors, having drinks before dinner. Perhaps in Iris, this is when families get a giant bowl of water and guzzle it down and splash it everywhere.
Ale casts a glance up at the dark cathedral windows. “We shouldn’t be nervous, right? People in this city would be excited to meet her.”
“Thrilled,” I say.
But we’re not from this city. We’re not here for a simple dress fitting.
Before I can lose
