Everybody says I look just like my mamma, because we have the same shiny dark hair and the same sharp features. But Paola insists the Papá in me overshadows everything else. She claims we have the same look in our eyes. It says, I get what I want, and I don’t care what it takes.
“How clever of you,” my papá says, taking my arm. “Nobody ever remembers the people in these ceremonies. They all look the same.”
Our family has lived in the same manor, passing down the same low-level seat in Parliament, since the city began. But now, we have my papá. When I was a day old, he planted himself in the parlor of the richest house in Occhia and refused to leave until they betrothed their newborn son to his newborn daughter. He spent the next seventeen years preparing me—not to be a spouse, but to be the head of a household and the head of our government. My mamma doesn’t understand me. She wants me to dress like her and have babies like her and spend my life quietly tending to a home. My papá wants me to have more than any other Ragno has ever had.
And I will. I’m going to walk down the aisle in front of everybody—everybody—in the whole city and get the life I deserve. I’m not afraid. I have nothing to hide.
My papá pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out. It’s a golden spiderweb pin that matches the one on his chest.
“You’re a Ragno,” he says. “Make sure they remember that, too.”
In spite of myself, I hesitate. I planned the rose embroidery on my skirts and the spiderweb lace on my sleeves for a reason. I want to tell people who I am in my own way.
But of course I’ll make an exception for my papá. We’re a team. I take the pin.
Just as I finish attaching it to my chest, the doors to the inner chamber of the cathedral swing open. And for a split second, I wonder if this was really a good idea. For a split second, I’m wishing I was still hidden in the prayer room. But it’s too late to change my mind now.
The organ music hits me like a wall of sound. The pews squeal as everybody in Occhia leaps to their feet. As my papá guides me forward, I suddenly appreciate how massive this place is. It’s pew after pew and arch after arch and column after column, and they all converge on the golden altar in the distance, where Ale is nothing but a dark smudge in the candlelight.
I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead as we parade past the masses. I can tell when we reach the pews where the noble families sit, because I nearly choke on the mass of perfumes. The whispering gets louder, too. Everyone is either delighted or horrified by my dress. Either one is fine with me.
My feet have grown sweaty in their silk slippers by the time we pass my family. I don’t look over, but I can hear Paola trying to shush my demon little brothers and my army of tiny cousins. We pass a row of stoic guards, their red coats barely visible at the edges of my vision. And all by herself, in the very first pew, is the only person who didn’t stand for me.
The watercrea.
I’ve seen the watercrea from a distance before. I don’t have to look to know that she has startlingly white skin and sleek dark hair, and she always wears a brilliant red gown. She looks only a little older than me, but she’s looked that way since the city began.
God made Occhia and everyone in it, but there’s one thing even he can’t make—water. The watercrea is the only person with the power to do that. Her magic lets her control blood and turn it into water, and for a thousand years, she’s been using it to keep us alive.
The watercrea takes her blood from our people. Once their first omen appears, they give themselves to her, and she locks them in her tower and slowly, carefully drains their blood into our underground well. In a matter of hours, they’re gone.
I don’t even bother to look at her as I pass by. Today isn’t about her and her tower and her prisoners with omens. It’s about me.
Ale is standing at the center of the altar, fidgeting erratically. His willowy mamma is at his side, watching me approach with a wavering mouth and dread in her eyes. As my papá kisses my cheek and deposits me next to Ale, two delicious, crystalline tears run down her cheeks.
I spend every day with Ale, but I’m always a little bit alarmed by how tall and gangly he’s become in the last couple of years. Ale has his mamma’s pale skin and graceful features. He could be handsome if he tried, but he’s too busy being gawky and utterly embarrassed by his own existence. Right now, his enormous brown eyes are taking in the crowd, and his panic is slowly growing—as if anyone is really staring at him when they have the option to stare at me. I reach over and take his hand, pointedly pulling him closer. His fingers are trembling and clammy, so maybe he won’t notice that mine are, too.
The organ stops, and in the ringing silence, we turn around to face the priest. Somebody in the crowd coughs softly, and it echoes in the cavernous space. A pew creaks. Ale’s mamma sniffles. Then the priest starts to sing, and his opening prayer drowns it all out.
I sneak another glance at Ale. The traditional black jacket of the House of Morandi, embroidered with gold thread and green ivy leaves, looks wide on his thin frame. His head is bent in pious concentration, but I can still feel him shaking. I squeeze his hand, and he gives me a slow sideways look and squeezes back.
Tonight,
