“That we only see her at the waterings,” he says. “And that it’s the only time we’re allowed in the cathedral. When she started, she said she wasn’t like… y’know.”
There’s a silence that I can’t quite interpret. But it doesn’t seem good.
“Just to be clear,” one of the cooks says, “the Heart spends every day using her mystical powers to make water for the whole city—water she creates out of nothing—and your complaint is that she’s never pulled you aside after the watering and invited you upstairs for tea?”
“It’s not a complaint,” the dishwasher says quickly. “I just thought it might be nice if we got to see her more, that’s all.”
“She is very beautiful,” the maid says, a jealous note in her voice. “I’d love to meet her, too. Colette and I are always saying that if she ever wants to hire maids—”
At that moment, somebody in the kitchen chooses to dump a potful of dirty water out the window. I barely manage not to scream. I had just dried off from the watering in the cathedral.
I need to move anyway. I need to think. I crawl out from the hedges and drip my way down the darkening street, trying to make sense of the swirl in my head.
“Emanuela,” Ale says, “did you hear what they said about—”
Yes. I heard. They said that the ruler of this city—the girl they called the Heart—makes water from nothing. They said that their people don’t have to give up their blood and die in a tower. They did, two years ago. But they don’t anymore.
I near the end of the street, where one of the statues is located, and stop. Water is still flowing down from the tiers, bubbling madly as it collects in the basin below. The figure of the girl in the white gown stands on top, her slender hands outstretched, smiling in a way that looks gentle and virtuous. I study her blank eyes.
I don’t know what to believe. The watercrea of Occhia was supposed to be invincible, but I pushed her over a balcony and killed her. Occhia is supposed to be everything that ever was, but I went into the catacombs and ended up in another city under the veil.
I can’t believe anything. Not until I see it for myself.
I have to find a way into the cathedral. I have to know if this city is really as perfect as it seems.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
At the unfamiliar voice, I turn to see a girl in a frilly blue day gown hovering nearby. She was speaking to Ale, apparently, because she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for a response. This is, of course, a lost cause. Ale doesn’t speak to strangers, especially not in one of his secondary languages. At least the interloper isn’t a handsome boy. Ale would have died on the spot.
“Who’s beautiful?” I say.
The girl looks at me. She hesitates. I assume it’s because of my intimidating aura.
“The Heart,” the girl says finally, like it’s obvious. “I was just… I just can’t help but admire her every time I pass by.”
She inches over to the basin. She’s holding a small glass jar that she dips into the water. She takes a drink.
So these people carry around their own jars. And they fill them up and chug them down whenever they please.
In Occhia, the watercrea controlled everything about the water. Her guards portioned out rations and brought them to each house every morning. Nobody ever got more, not even sick people in dire need of it.
This luxury is grotesque.
My people need it. I need it.
“I was admiring the Heart, as well,” I say, with a subtle attempt at mimicking the girl’s lilting accent. I’m uncomfortably aware of the way every single word differs, ever so slightly, from the way I would have said it in Occhia.
“Well,” she says, curtsying briefly, “have a blessed day.”
As she starts to turn away, her bag shifts, and I catch a glimpse of supplies that I recognize.
“Do you sew?” I say.
The girl pauses. She fiddles with a strand of hair that’s fallen out of her hilariously puffy updo. I don’t know how her delicate neck is supporting it all.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m from the Circle du Brodeur.”
She says it as though I’m supposed to be impressed.
“How impressive,” I say.
“Actually, I…” She pauses. She glances at Ale, then back at me, and puffs up her chest a little bit. “I’ve been invited to sew for the Heart,” she says.
“Oh?” I say.
“If you hadn’t heard, she’s planning a big celebration for her anniversary,” she says. “And she wants to be dressed accordingly, of course.”
“So you’ll get to meet the Heart?” I say.
She glows. “Yes. It’s such an honor.”
I put my hands in my pockets. “An honor indeed. When will you meet her? Soon?”
“This evening,” she says, a little jittery. “I’m just finishing my preparations. I’m getting specially made lace from the Circle du Bisset, and then some roses from—” She cuts herself off. She thinks she’s said too much in her excitement, and she doesn’t trust me. I can’t imagine why. I think I look very wholesome and trustworthy.
“Well.” I curtsy, a bit awkward in my baggy pants. “Good luck. Now we’ll be able to tell everyone that we met the famous… what did you say your name was?”
She glances at Ale one more time. He attempts a smile. It’s undoubtedly the least threatening thing she’s ever seen.
“Tatienne,” she says to him, slightly reassured. “Tatienne du Brodeur.”
Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, one of her tiny sketchbooks was slipped out of her bag and into my pocket. Also, a powder of crushed flower bulbs has been sprinkled into her jug of water. I hope it doesn’t make her sick and cause her to miss her appointment.
She turns back to me. “Anyway, have a blessed day.” She walks away, taking a sip from her jug as she goes.
Ale gives me a sideways look, his gaze flickering to the lump in my pocket.
“What?” I say. “Did you expect me to push her off a balcony?”
His face goes pale. He looks away.
All at once, I remember the watercrea’s blood seeping onto the cobblestone. I remember the way her lifeless face looked right before her body disappeared.
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.