When we reach the far door, the strange man stops and turns toward us. He’s younger than I thought, actually—close to my age. He’s just very tall and broad in the shoulders. And he has a severe way about him. He looks like the sort of person who hates fun.
“You’re early,” he says.
“My apologies,” I say. “Perhaps there is such a thing as being too punctual, after all.”
He narrows his dark eyes. He has brown skin and perfect curly hair. His clothes, like the cathedral, are white and spotless, and the embroidery on his vest is finely detailed.
“The Heart won’t be able to meet with you now,” he says. “Surely you can appreciate how many demands she has on her time and energy.”
“Of course,” I say. “Is there somewhere we could wait, so we could start setting up…?”
He’s silent. He surveys Ale for a moment, but then, seemingly unimpressed, he turns back to me.
“What’s in your pocket?” he says.
I haven’t touched my pocket since I was standing at the bottom of the very winding staircase. I wish the people I’d eavesdropped on had mentioned something about the Heart having a fancy servant who is, apparently, all-seeing.
“Oh, these?” I reach for my sewing scissors, glad I didn’t bring something even more suspicious. “They’re just my favorite pair of—”
“You must be Madame du Brodeur!”
The voice comes from directly behind me. I want to pretend like it doesn’t scare me half to death, but it absolutely does. I scramble to collect myself and turn around with dignity.
It’s her. It’s the Heart. She’s standing right here, within arm’s reach, and the very fact of her presence is enormous—too enormous for this tiny hall. I expected her to look less immaculate up close, but her gown is pristine. Her long curls are artfully piled on top of her head, a delicate white rose still tucked behind one of her ears. I didn’t realize she was quite so tall. Or quite so elegant in the face. If anything, the statues don’t do her justice.
I meet her eyes. They’re dark and glittering.
I know those eyes. I’ve seen them before.
I drop my gaze as fast as I can.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s me.”
My voice comes out hoarse. The hall has suddenly gotten very cold.
I saw this girl in the catacombs. I saw her, and she saw me, and she had something on her hands that looked very much like blood.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she’s saying, her accent light and airy and completely carefree. “I’m such an admirer. That gown you did last season, with the gigantic train and the— Theo, get out of their way, would you? We shouldn’t force them to linger in the hall.”
“They’re early,” the serious-looking boy insists from the door.
“I have time,” she says.
The boy opens the door and stands aside, but he doesn’t look happy about it.
I can’t go into her quarters. She’s going to recognize me. She’s going to see through me, just like the watercrea did.
Ale is nudging me into the room, and I don’t want to go, but I don’t know how to stop it, either. I find myself in a parlor with a high vaulted ceiling. The most striking feature is a towering stained-glass window on the far wall. It depicts two raised, white-gloved hands shooting a cascade of water into the air. The blue glass scatters the dark red light from the veil outside, creating shards of color all over the tile floor.
The Heart shuts the door. We’re alone with her.
I reach up to make sure the handkerchief on my head is in place. My ruined hair is so distinctive. If somebody only caught a glimpse of me, it’s the thing they would remember.
“Please, sit down,” the Heart says.
We cross the room to perch on a love seat. I’m vaguely aware that Ale is looking at me with concern.
“Is something wrong?” he whispers.
I shake my head. I can still pretend to be an ordinary seamstress. I just have to learn more about this girl and her water. That’s all.
The Heart brings over a silver platter of food. I wonder why her servant didn’t stay for such a job. There are no signs of any maids, either. In fact, I notice as I subtly glance around, the room looks a bit dusty. I can see it floating in the beams of light filtering through the window.
The Heart pops the cork of a bottle that was already open and pours us very generous glasses of white wine.
“I’m sorry about my brother,” she says over the gurgling. “He means well. He’s just tragically uptight.”
I glance at the parlor door. So he wasn’t a servant. Now that it’s been pointed out to me, the two of them do resemble each other, all tall and dark and graceful.
Having a brother is very… nonmystical of her. The watercrea in Occhia didn’t have a family. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what to make of any of this.
“He won’t—” I clear my throat. My accursed voice is still coming out raspy. “He won’t be joining us?”
“Oh, he’ll already be locked up in his study.” She waves a white-gloved hand at the far side of the room. “He loves his work too much to sit around and engage in our chatter.”
She plops down across from us in a flurry of skirts.
“But for me…” She nudges the silver tray closer to us. “Getting to know my people is my favorite part of being the Heart of Iris. It’s so much more intimate than standing on top of a fountain and looking down at you, although of course, I love that, too. Cakes?”
I eye the tiny squares, frosted in delicate pastel shades. I try to convince myself to pick one up.
The girl takes a gulp of her wine.
“Anyway, Madame du Brodeur, let’s talk about you.” She looks at Ale. “And you, as well. Are you her assistant? What’s your name?”
Ale freezes, looking mortified. There are approximately three cakes in his mouth.
“You can call me Verene, by the way.” The girl realizes that he’s incapacitated and jumps in to fill the silence. “Madame du Sauveterre is fine if you insist on sticking to formalities. Please tell me how you’d like to be addressed. And then tell me everything about yourselves and your work.”
I glance up to see her settling back onto her love seat, like she fully expects us to regale her with hours of seamstress stories.
I can’t sit here for that long. Not with her right across from me, staring at me so attentively.
“Actually, Madame du Sauveterre—” I say.
“You really can call me Verene,” she says.
“V-Verene,” I say. “If it’s not too rude to suggest, perhaps we could talk as we begin our work? I must admit, in situations such as these, I often find that I become rather… shy.”
She’s quiet. Just for a moment. I resist the urge to slip a hand into my pocket and make sure my sewing scissors are still within reach.
“Of course it’s not too rude!” she says. “You’re the brilliant artist. We shall do whatever makes you the most comfortable. Let me just show you to my—”
She leaps to her feet and abruptly sways, like she’s dizzy. Ale reaches for her, because his instinct is to be a polite gentleman. I’m halfway to my feet, because if something is happening, I have to be prepared. But she’s already braced herself on the arm of the love seat and recovered.