It takes a minute to find the room where servants do laundry and mend clothes. In Occhia, I know from snooping around in my own house, clothes are carefully spot-scrubbed. But here, of course, they do it to excess. There’s a massive tub of soapy water on the floor. I shut the door and lock it. I sort through the nearby piles of clothes and pick out something for Ale that’s respectable and relatively clean-smelling. I spend admittedly too much time on my own outfit. I find a not-hideous green day gown, but the neckline is too high and frilly, so I have to make a few quick alterations. I also take a black handkerchief that I can tie around my hair, because I have no illusions that it looks like the hair of a renowned seamstress.
When we’re both changed, I inspect Ale. His hair is damp, but more or less patted back into its aristocratic coif. His pants—the longest ones I could find—are too short. He looks extremely self-conscious about it. In other words, he’s as good as he’s going to get.
I pack up the sewing kit on the table, making sure it has several pairs of scissors. I slip an additional small but very sharp pair into my pocket, for good measure.
“There’s a mirror out in the hall,” I say. “I’ll just go admire my new gown and tie on this handkerchief, and then we can—”
“Um,” Ale says. He’s staring at me.
“What?” I adjust my neckline. “It’s not even that scandalous. It’s like you’ve never seen anything else I’ve ever worn.”
“Just, um… hold on.” He roots around the room until he finds a washcloth. He dips it into the soapy water and comes at me.
I back up. “What are you doing? Don’t get me wet.”
“Just…” He won’t let up. “There’s just some dust from the catacombs on you. I can—”
I squirm out of his grip and snatch the washcloth away.
“Emanuela,” he says.
I’m already pushing the door open. “I can do it myself. You’re not my nursemaid, Ale—”
As soon as I look in the mirror, it becomes glaringly obvious why he was trying to clean me up.
My face is gaunt and my cheeks are hollow. My hair is in absolute tatters. I knew it was bad, but it’s far worse than I’d imagined. There are pieces touching my collarbone and pieces so short they’re sticking straight up. There’s dried blood on my neck, smeared around the wound where the watercrea’s needle went in. It’s definitely going to leave a scar.
This isn’t how I’m supposed to look. I’m supposed to look like a girl who can do anything, not a girl who’s been broken and cobbled back together.
I try to wipe the dirt off my face. It barely helps.
Ale appears at my side. His fingers brush my hair, and I jerk away, sharp and defensive. Undaunted apparently, he reaches over to pull the washcloth out of my hand. “Let me try,” he says.
He takes me back into the laundry room. He wipes me off again, then fusses with my hair as I clutch the sewing kit and stare at the buttons on his shirt. He smells sweaty. I can only imagine how I smell.
He ties the handkerchief on for me and steps back.
I pat my head. “Is it all covered? Do I look… normal?”
It pains me to even say. I don’t want to struggle for normal. I want to look better than everyone else.
Ale smiles. The disconcerting thing about growing up with my best friend is that he’s somehow every age at once. I’ll spot his lanky figure down the street and think he’s an actual adult man and have a moment of panic. Then he’ll beam at me the way he’s beaming now, and he’s a little boy.
“You’re the prettiest girl I know,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “And I can’t live without your approval.”
Outside, I can hear footsteps. Cabinets are opening and plates are clinking. The servants must be starting to set the table for dinner. We open the laundry room window and quietly shimmy out.
A few minutes later, we’re standing at the bottom of the cathedral steps. The veil overhead has sunk into a deep red, and the city around us has gone quiet. In Occhia, this is the time when noble families are in their parlors, having drinks before dinner. Perhaps in Iris, this is when families get a giant bowl of water and guzzle it down and splash it everywhere.
Ale casts a glance up at the dark cathedral windows. “We shouldn’t be nervous, right? People in this city would be excited to meet her.”
“Thrilled,” I say.
But we’re not from this city. We’re not here for a simple dress fitting.
Before I can lose my nerve, I march up the steps and knock. The sound of my fist seems so small and insignificant against the huge wooden door.
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.