Chapter 6
F or a moment, I leave my body entirely, shutting myself into a tiny room I’ve hidden away beneath my breastbone. From there, from that great distance, I marvel at Sergio’s anger, his willingness to slander an Apostle House. I do not understand why such a simple thing—a refusal of his unexpected offer—conjures such emotions in him. Surely there are other women, likely with better social standing and no twisted limbs, who would gladly accept his hand. Why me ?
“Of course,” Sergio snaps, spittle flying from his mouth. “You only think of him as your Apostle savior.”
I do not know what to say. My veins pound, and every instinct in my body tells me to run—and to keep running, perhaps until I hit the cliffs or the ramparts. When I do, perhaps I’ll spread my arms, and perhaps I’ll fly or I’ll fall, but either way, I’d be free.
Desperate, I risk movement, edging out of the grotto, back into the warmth and light and safety of the Spine. Clasping my worn Saintess Lucia medallion, I say a silent prayer for her to intercede. But Sergio doesn’t yield; if anything, he looms closer, a taunting smile on his face, more words on the tip of his tongue.
“Ophelia!” a dearly familiar voice calls.
My heart lifts as I look past Sergio and find Carina coming down the wide corridor, arm-in-arm with her husband, a newly appointed Knight of the Host. I try to subtly shake my head at her—to tell her not to save me, not to wield Augustus’s power against Sergio. The Imperator and a Host Knight are too close in rank, and with Sergio’s seniority, I don’t want him going after Augustus.
I have done enough, I think, to toss troubles at Carina’s feet. But she keeps coming anyway, the heels of her cream leather boots clicking on the marble floors. I marvel at her—elegant, slender, her alabaster skin tinted with rose, her gorgeous tresses of chestnut hair piled high on her head, looking for all the world like an Apostle Lady, even though her father is a merchant. But she’s always been sharper than me, ever since that day we met in the gardens as children, always better at navigating the complex social web of Lumendei.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Carina coos as if Sergio is simply another statue and not the Imperator of the Holy Guard. Augustus—tall, powerfully built with burnished onyx skin and dark curls—places himself firmly between Carina and Sergio. “Did Renault have this dress made for you?”
Silence hangs heavy for a long moment. My heart beats furiously against my ribs. I want to open my mouth and scream, to shout until my throat is raw. Instead, I try to be sly, to be subtle and sharp, like my lovely Carina.
“He did,” I say with a forced laugh, brushing one hand across the flowing skirt. As I do, my shawl slips down, and the pearl chains strung like epaulets across my shoulders shimmer in the light of Saint Adrian’s candles.
Sergio holds his ground, face growing redder by the moment, but his guards have shifted away, lost their intensity, unwilling to tangle with a Host Knight in view of the entire Spine.
“I’m sure he’s very eager to see you in it, no?” Carina asks with a bright smile. She turns and offers Sergio a small curtsy. “Imperator. I believe Augustus wanted to discuss a training exercise with you—something useful for knights and guards alike. Do you have a moment to speak?”
Sergio’s thick jaw grinds. He looks toward me, light eyes consuming me. “We will talk soon, Ophelia.” Then his attention shifts to Augustus, his entire demeanor changing as he addresses another man.
Carina slips her arm out of Augustus’s and steps toward me. “Are you all right?” she asks in a tense whisper, all that soft, comfortable ease leaked out of her.
“Fine,” I say, strained. The blood pounding in my ears has lessened, but now my knees feel unsteady, my skin clammy. With the immediate threat gone, self-hatred for my own weakness curls low in my belly. “Thank you.”
“Well, don’t be late for your titled Apostle fiancé,” Carina teases, louder now, that ease returning to her expression. “Who, by the way, you should speak with about what happened this morning with Saintess Lucia. But I digress. I’ll see you in the garden tomorrow, yes?”
And that’s when I realize that following the High Ecclesian’s orders means lying to my dearest friend. My body rebels at the thought, a knot forming in my stomach. Since we met, both barely in our tenth summer then, we’ve told each other everything. Carina is my heart, and I like to think I am hers. But then, like a cold spray of seawater on bare skin, I admit to myself that I have been lying to Carina for a very, very long time. What’s another falsehood piled on top of my unspoken and unrequited love for her?
“I think I’m taking on more at the Libris Sanctum,” I lie, so simply and easily that, for the millionth time, I understand why my body was marred by my God. “Renault needs the help. But I hope so. The end of the summer harvest is my favorite.”
“Mine, too.” Carina smiles warmly, though with a tilt of her head, she tells me to make my escape now. I whisper my thanks to her, not daring to glance back at Sergio.
And then I’m on my way, moving as quickly as my body allows. When I reach the end of the Spine and enter the large, magnificent stone courtyard, I gasp in relief, like a drowning man finally reaching the shore. Wearily, I lean back against a low stone wall and try to collect myself. Panic flutters in my throat, a bone-deep sadness curling around my chest with weighted, thorny claws.
I set my jaw, closing my eyes. I detest this particular kind of sorrow that comes over me sometimes. It makes me want to cry until I can’t breathe, to shout as loud as I can, until my voice gives out. Hardly befitting a Host woman, let alone an Amadeus bride. I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms, and force my eyes open.
A bit farther down the curve of the courtyard, just beneath the fluttering cream awnings, a carriage awaits. It’s like something out of the fairy tales that the cooks tell late at night when the guards are focused on the ramparts and there are no disapproving ears. I shouldn’t listen, I know, but the stories don’t seem dangerous—and right now, I feel as though I’ve stepped right into one of them.
Two snow-white equui pull the carriage, their long manes plaited into braids, each one festooned with tiny chamomile flowers. The door of the carriage features the Amadeus coat of arms—a dove upon a silver scroll, with branches of cypress sweeping up from the bottom corners and a trio of gold bells hanging from the top. Between the cypress branches, emblazoned in illuminated font, are the words aut deus aut nihil . “God or nothing.” A sentiment Renault and I share wholeheartedly.
I let out a long breath and glance over my shoulder. The Holy Guard posted at the Spine’s entrance are surely watching me. Let them report this back to Sergio: a footman, dressed in Amadeus livery, opened the carriage door for her, and she stepped inside, out of your grasp, beyond your reach.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the door closes behind me, leaving me in peaceful silence. The carriage rumbles off, pulling away from the Cloisters and descending the mild slope into the Gilded Quarter. I pull back the curtain, eager to think of anything but Sergio.
The sea greets me, glinting in the distance like a diamond. Its shimmering swathe frames the Gilded Quarter, a crescent-shaped district along the cliffs. Below, the pitch of the hill steepens, leading to the Lower City at its feet. Try as I might to focus on the wonders—rooftops of gold, spires of ivory, cedar shake siding covered with roses, winding white roads—it is Sergio and his threats that keep my attention.
When the carriage arrives at House Amadeus, I’ve forced myself to calm down a little, for Renault’s sake. I gather up my cane and shawl, waiting for the footman to open the door. And then I’m making my way up the stone pathway through House Amadeus’s sprawling manicured gardens.
The structure itself is so large that it still takes me aback, massive blocks of carved sandstone creating a gorgeous castle. The manor is tucked away at the edge of the property, ringed in old-growth trees. On either side of the building, green hills stretch, eventually giving way to the seaside cliffs. With nightfall approaching, the exuberant chorus of late-summer insects envelops me as I near the door. It swings open before I reach it, creating a square of warm light in the gray-purple veil of dusk.
“Lady Ophelia,” comes Renault’s rich voice, though I am no lady—not yet, not until we’re married. He strides down the sandstone steps to escort me into his home. I appreciate it—the steps are old and worn by the passage of so many feet, and estimating the uneven height of each during dusk is difficult.
Once inside, Renault takes my shawl. “You look just as lovely in that dress as I thought you would,” he says with a smile, reaching out to tuck a length of hair behind my ear.
“Thank you,” I demur, ducking my chin. “It’s very beautiful.”
Renault slides his arm through mine and leads me to one of the parlors off the marble foyer. “I’m sure you think it’s a bit much,” he says, smiling down at me. I warm at the words; he truly knows me.
“I do,” I laugh, settling into the seat he pulls out for me. He’s chosen one of the smaller, tucked-away parlors for our meal. Tall, latticed windows look out into the gardens, the view partially obscured by flowering vines. Candles line the windowsills, their flames casting a cozy glow about the room. In the elegant marble hearth, a fire crackles. A small round table is set with a beautiful, embroidered tablecloth, a vase of jasmine buds, and three slender tapers of beeswax.
“Were you able to rest?” Renault asks me, taking his seat across from me. I can feel the heat of his knees, so close to mine, beneath the table.
“A bit, yes,” I say, pleased by the lack of household staff and the chilled carafe of wine. We will be able to speak freely here—a relief. “Though Sergio spoke to me in the Spine. He knows the High Ecclesia asked something of me. Renault . . . are we in trouble?”
His jaw works back and forth for a moment before he reaches over and fills my glass. “Hardly more so than we already were,” he replies, flashing me that mischievous grin I know so well. “You’ve already been accused of forbidden goetia, and that was after anni of rumors that your mother must’ve been guilty of such a crime for your leg to look the way it does. You’ve gotten by on being Spared, on that story making the rounds. And on your beauty, if I may be so frank.”
He pauses, contemplative. “But now the High Ecclesia is evidently suspicious of our engagement and has opted to use that against us,” he continues. “But why? What’s so important about you being the one to care for the prisoner?”
From anyone else, save for perhaps Carina, the words would bite into me deeply, sending my heart galloping away from my chest. But with Renault, there is a calmness, a frankness that I appreciate.
“The Lupa Nox is Fatum,” I say, following the words with a long sip from my wine. “Fallen, of course.”
Renault freezes, his own glass trembling in his hands. “She is . . . Fatum ?”
“Yes,” I reply with a deep inhale. “And naturally They don’t want anyone to know. I suppose I was the best healer without Mysteries that They had leverage over. But here’s what I don’t understand, Renault. Had They simply asked me not to tell anyone about her, I wouldn’t have. I fully understand the panic such knowledge could cause.”
Unfrozen, back to himself, though a weariness has settled onto his shoulders, Renault swirls his wine glass. “Yes, well, you know the opinion the High Ecclesia holds of mortals, particularly foundlings. They probably never even considered that you wouldn’t need consequences to do the right thing.”
I sigh, dropping my head against the high back of the chair. “Renault, if we cannot marry, Sergio will destroy my reputation and drive me out of Lumendei. Or, worse, he’ll have me burned.”
“I know,” comes his weathered, quiet response. Goetia burnings are rare these days, but they still happen. Which means it could still happen to me .
My hands curl into fists as I sit up straight, staring over Renault’s shoulder into the fire. “I did nothing to gain Sergio’s attention. I did nothing to make him think I would be interested in marriage with him. And I certainly did nothing to make him think I would want to engage in any kind of relations outside Holy Matrimony. Do I really seem so faithless, so immoral?”
The words catch in my throat, and I already know the answer. Between my appearance and my twisted leg, so many men see me as a kind of temptation, a snake in the grass that should’ve never been permitted to join the ranks of Lumendei’s people.
As a child, I was pitiful. As a woman, I am sinful by mere virtue of my body, my face—things I cannot control. Perhaps this is why I cannot accept that I might be beautiful. Because I do not think I can bear another curse.
Renault sighs, his gaze sliding back to meet mine. “That’s why I got you the dress, you know,” he says with a playful smile, tilting his wine glass to gesture at the garment. “You’ve been hiding. I understand, after everything. But you’re a bride of the Twelve now. You deserve to feel joy in your beauty, not shame.”
I chew on my lip and look away, instead examining the sweep of dusk outside the windows. Renault is right, I know—a bride’s beauty is often shown off and celebrated during the engagement. And I do enjoy taking care of my appearance; such things are a pillar of the Church and Lumendei culture. But I prefer to present myself in a less ostentatious way—pretty but not ravishing, not sin-inducing, though I fear that’s how I might look in Renault’s celestial dress.
Particularly after the trial. I’d spurned Sergio with less grace than he deserved; I’d been surprised and a bit scared by the intensity of his proposal. When I refused, he accused me of goetia the next day. Why else would a man of means, a military commander, be so entranced by a penniless foundling that he found himself unable to eat, unable to sleep, as he claimed?
I take a long sip of wine as Renault drums his fingers on the tabletop, clearly just as lost in thought as I am.
I have no living family—only rumors that my mother worked goetia, consorting with wicked diaboli in exchange for unearthly powers, those actions leaving me with a useless leg that no amount of Mysterium has ever been able to heal. I have no Mysteries, a further sign of my wickedness. I think the only reason I had a trial at all, instead of immediately being sentenced to the stake, was because all those anni ago, the First Son Spared me. A whole village massacred except for me, perched like a gem amidst the horrors.
And perhaps because of Carina and Renault’s protests, as well as the testimony of so many people I’ve healed or helped in some way, who view me as modest and God-fearing. Even when They delivered a not-guilty verdict—heavily influenced by Renault’s marriage proposal, just as we’d hoped—one of the High Ecclesia stepped forward.
In front of half the city, They told me just how disappointed They were to see a foundling taken under Lumendei’s wing betray Their trust like this. Hadn’t the First Son given me everything—including my life, all those anni ago, in that decimated village?
A log crashes in the fireplace, making me jump out of my skin, though the fear also crystallizes a thought rising in my mind.
“I have to get a Saint to grant me the Mysteries,” I say before I realize the words are leaving my mouth, my gaze meeting Renault’s again.
He startles, his eyes narrowing, hooded in the fireplace’s shadows. Dusk paints the room in shades of blue and purple, bruise-like.
“My position will always be questionable otherwise. You can’t spend your life defending your bride. I’ll care for the Lupa Nox, of course—do what They tell me to. But if I’m granted the Mysteries, then of course I wasn’t performing goetia. I couldn’t have been.”
Renault is looking at me strangely now, his head tilted to one side. “That would be excellent, yes. But Ophelia, you’re to be an Amadeus wife. An Apostle. You can’t say the wrong thing to the wrong person.” He trails off, examining me as he shifts away, the ancient floorboards creaking.
My breath halts in my chest; I have no idea what he is trying to say. So I press my mouth into a firm line and wait, hands curling around the elegant arms of the carved chair.
“You do know, Ophelia,” Renault eventually says, leaning forward onto the table, making the wine in the carafe tremble, “that the Saints aren’t real?”