“What do you mean?” she says.
I want to explain what I saw in the tower. All those people, sobbing and wasting away. Two little girls crammed into the same cell. The watercrea wasn’t squeezing out the last drops from doomed Occhians. She was meticulously draining her prisoners for everything she could get—prisoners who turned themselves in because of omens that aren’t spreading.
I’m supposed to be the only one with an omen that isn’t spreading. I can’t quite wrap my head around what it means. I can’t put it into words with her and Ale staring at me. But two things are very certain: I didn’t belong in the tower, and it’s good that the watercrea is dead.
Even if the underground well is empty. Even if the city is descending into chaos. Even if I have no idea how to fix it and no time to figure it out.
I take another drink, desperately.
Then, all at once, it hits me. Paola just told me that there’s no more water. Only wealthy people will have enough on hand to survive. And yet, here she is, presenting me with an entire jug.
“This—this is yours—” I hold it out to her.
She pushes back. “It’s yours.”
She knows the guards are coming. And yet, she snuck down here. For me. I’m so used to Paola’s presence—she woke me up every morning and brought me hot chocolate every night and listened to my constant monologue of very important opinions—that I hadn’t even thought about what it means for her to have sought me out. No one from my family has sought me out. But I’m sure there’s a good reason for that.
“My papá,” I say. “He’ll help us. He will. If we can just—”
“You can’t get to him, Emanuela,” she says. “The heads of the Houses have all locked themselves in the Parliament building. I’m telling you—it’s bad up there.”
“But—”
Somewhere in the distance, a door cracks open. It’s followed by the thudding of dozens of pairs of feet.
Paola yanks me up and shoves me at Ale.
“You need to run,” she says.
I don’t want to run. I want to help her. I want to know exactly how to fix all this. But I don’t. I don’t even know where to start, and for a moment, I’m frozen as that fact looms in my mind, huge and terrifying.
“We’re going to find a way,” Ale says.
Paola and I both turn to him.
“What?” Paola says.
“We’re going to find a way to get more water,” he says. “Right, Emanuela?”
His voice is uncertain, but his eyes are wide and trusting. It’s the way he’s looked at me since the moment we met.
He’s looking at me like he needs me. Because he does.
They all need me. I’m the only person in a thousand years who had what it took to best the watercrea. That means I’m the only person who has what it takes to replace her.
Of course it does. I can figure out how to do something no Occhian has ever done, because I’m not like any other Occhian.
My people may not understand that yet. But they will soon.
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.