And I’m not wrong about the girl in front of me. I can’t be wrong about her.
I’ve hesitated for too long. Verene has sensed it, and she’s barreling on.
“Just let me show you,” she says. “Then you’ll have no choice but to believe.”
I shove the gag back over her mouth.
“I’m the only one who gets to decide what I believe,” I say.
For good measure, I grab a silk pillowcase from her bed and shove it over her head. I tie it in place with a ribbon around her neck.
She looks well and truly secured, so I stand up. I beckon Ale and lead him to the far side of the room.
Tucked away on the other side of the wardrobe is a small window alcove filled with an easel and paints. A quick glance around at the works in progress tells me that Verene has painted the city streets below at least a dozen times. The light of the veil changes—from deep black in the middle of the night to the brilliant rich hue of midday—but the rest of it stays more or less the same. The paintings are, I reluctantly admit to myself, rather good. She has an eye for color. Especially the red.
I turn away, uneasy.
“Emanuela,” Ale says, “were you planning this the whole time?”
No.
“Yes,” I say.
“Because you knew that was her we saw in the catacombs?” he says.
“I didn’t just see her,” I say. “I saw blood on her hands.”
He looks pointedly at the easel. “She said she was painting—”
“I know what she said,” I snap. “Has it occurred to you that sometimes people lie? Sometimes they pretend to be things they aren’t, because it means they can be beloved like a living saint?”
“So you think…” He shifts. “You think she’s like…”
“Like the watercrea?” I say.
I can speak the word out loud, even if he can’t. She’s dead. Saying her title means nothing to me.
His eyes drift back to Verene’s wiggling form.
“How can you be so sure?” he says.
“How can you be so sure that I’m wrong?” I say.
He’s quiet.
“You can’t,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I know, Emanuela. I’m not that naive.”
“Pfft,” I say.
“I just…” Ale fiddles with the white rose behind his ear. “I don’t know. I don’t feel like she’s evil.”
I roll my eyes harder than I thought possible.
“Anyway.” I reach up and snatch the white rose from his ear, discarding it on the floor. “If you’re done wasting time with your feelings, we can discuss our plan. We need to get down to the underground well. I suspect there’s something there she doesn’t want us to see. And, obviously, we need to take her with us.”
Ale goes a little pale. “But we have to get past her brother. He might be evil. I did get that feeling about him.”
“She also has a housekeeper,” I say. “I saw her when I was sneaking around. There could be any number of surprises out there, so our approach has to be…” I look around the room. “Flawless.”
That’s how we end up stuffing Verene into a trunk we find at the foot of her bed. It’s filled with papers, and at first, I think we’ve come across something very interesting, but I quickly discover they’re nothing more than letters from her adoring citizens. I pick through them, hoping to find a hint of something worthwhile, as Ale tightens Verene’s bonds. Some people wax on about Verene’s elegance and generosity and incredible hair. More than one proposes marriage. And every single letter tells her how much better their life has been since she became the Heart. One man writes that he got his first omen the night before his daughter was born, and that he thinks every single day about how in the old Iris he would have missed his daughter’s entire life.
Obviously, what the watercrea told us about omens wasn’t true. They don’t all spread within hours. I heard the other Occhians wasting away in the tower, taking entirely too long to die. I can see the people of Iris, walking around marked but free. But I’m sure this man’s omens will spread sooner than he thinks. Not everyone is like me. Obviously.
I pick up my sewing kit, instructing Ale to drag the trunk. I peek out to make sure the hallway is empty, then lead us on.
“Do you really think anyone will believe that the Heart gave us a trunk of her gowns as an act of kindness?” Ale whispers, eyeing each door we pass.
“Only if you stop whispering to me like we’re in the middle of a devious scheme,” I say.
The parlor is mercifully empty, its lights low. Outside, the veil is nearly black. For a moment, I hover in the middle of the quiet room, waiting for someone to show up and regard us with the suspicion we deserve. No one does. I eye the two doorways on the far wall. I can only see shadows beyond them.
“Wait here,” I tell Ale.
“What?” he says in a panic. “You can’t just leave me alone with a suspicious trunk!”
“I’m just going to run over and look for an entrance to the underground well,” I say. “If she spends all her time there, she might have a way down from her quarters.”
“But what if somebody comes?” he says. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Act like a human being,” I say. “Can you manage that?”
“No!” he says.
I run off. I don’t have time for his fretting. I don’t have time to think about how we’re in a cathedral we don’t understand, in a city we don’t understand, holding captive a girl whose powers we don’t understand. I’m going to understand it all soon.
Through the first doorway is a dining room. The round table hasn’t been set for dinner yet, a jeweled chandelier overhead flickering gently. There are sets of
