A long moment passes. Then, from behind the doors, there’s the dull click of a lock, and we push our way inside.
The foyer looks very different now. The lights are low, and the inner chamber is closed. Even still, the space feels huge, and Ale and I are standing all alone on the black-and-white tile. I squint around in the shadows. I don’t see anything.
I clear my throat and decide to address the iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“I’m Tatienne du Brodeur,” I say. “The seamstress.” I glance at Ale. “And this is my… manservant.”
Silence.
“This was a bad idea,” Ale whispers. “We shouldn’t have done this. We should have just—”
Off to one side, there’s a loud crack. I jump at the same time that Ale seizes me around the shoulders.
A door on the far wall has swung part of the way open. Beyond it, I see the hint of a staircase. There’s still no sign of a person.
I assume the Heart wants me to be impressed that she can open doors without being anywhere near them. This must be another mystical quality that the people of Iris worship.
I’m not impressed.
I march for the door. The stairwell has warm lanterns on the wall and a soft red carpet. The top of the staircase is shrouded in darkness.
Tatienne du Brodeur, the seamstress who lives in this city and attends its magical waterings every day, wouldn’t be afraid to go up these stairs and meet her benevolent and powerful ruler. So I’m not, either. I touch my pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of my sewing scissors. Then I start to climb.
As Ale and I spiral up the steps, I hear the lock on the front door slide back into place.
EIGHT
AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, A DOOR IS WAITING FOR US, poised between two ornate statues. Each one depicts the same girl in the white gown, one hand raised, holding a decorative glass lantern with a flame burning inside.
I stop, bracing myself on the wall. It was a very long staircase, and I’m winded.
“So…” I say over my shoulder to Ale. “Do you… think…”
I have to pause to suck in air. The sound is not flattering.
“Do you think I should knock on the door?” I manage at last. “Or is she going to open it with her special connection to all of the cathedral’s—”
The door swings inward to reveal the shadowy, imposing figure of a man.
“Hello.” I straighten up. “I’m Tatienne du Brodeur. I’m the—”
“I know,” he says.
He stands back like we’re meant to come inside, so we do. We’re in a long, narrow entrance hall. It’s empty, except for a small table in the very center holding a vase of white roses. As the man leads us along, I give them a wide berth. We don’t grow white roses in the House of Rosa. Nobody would want to decorate their home with flowers the color of death.
When we reach the far door, the strange man stops and turns toward us. He’s younger than I thought, actually—close to my age. He’s just very tall and broad in the shoulders. And he has a severe way about him. He looks like the sort of person who hates fun.
“You’re early,” he says.
“My apologies,” I say. “Perhaps there is such a thing as being too punctual, after all.”
He narrows his dark eyes. He has brown skin and perfect curly hair. His clothes, like the cathedral, are white and spotless, and the embroidery on his vest is finely detailed.
“The Heart won’t be able to meet with you now,” he says. “Surely you can appreciate how many demands she has on her time and energy.”
“Of course,” I say. “Is there somewhere we could wait, so we could start setting up…?”
He’s silent. He surveys Ale for a moment, but then, seemingly unimpressed, he turns back to me.
“What’s in your pocket?” he says.
I haven’t touched my pocket since I was standing at the bottom of the very winding staircase. I wish the people I’d eavesdropped on had mentioned something about the Heart having a fancy servant who is, apparently, all-seeing.
“Oh, these?” I reach for my sewing scissors, glad I didn’t bring something even more suspicious. “They’re just my favorite pair of—”
“You must be Madame du Brodeur!”
The voice comes from directly behind me. I want to pretend like it doesn’t scare me half to death, but it absolutely does. I scramble to collect myself and turn around with dignity.
It’s her. It’s the Heart. She’s standing right here, within arm’s reach, and the very fact of her presence is enormous—too enormous for this tiny hall. I expected her to look less immaculate up close, but her gown is pristine. Her long curls are artfully piled on top of her head, a delicate white rose still tucked behind one of her ears. I didn’t realize she was quite so tall. Or quite so elegant in the face. If anything, the statues don’t do her justice.
I meet her eyes. They’re dark and glittering.
I know those eyes. I’ve seen them before.
I drop my gaze as fast as I can.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s me.”
My voice comes out hoarse. The hall has suddenly gotten very cold.
I saw this girl in the catacombs. I saw her, and she saw me, and she had something on her hands that looked very much like blood.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she’s saying, her accent light and airy and completely carefree. “I’m such an admirer. That gown you did last season, with the gigantic train and the— Theo, get out of their way, would you? We shouldn’t force them to linger in the hall.”
“They’re early,” the serious-looking boy insists from the door.
“I have time,” she says.
The boy opens the door and stands aside, but he doesn’t look happy about it.
I can’t go into her quarters. She’s going to recognize me. She’s going to see
