“I’m sorry,” Mia tried. “About what they did to you. That was cruel.”
The boy inclined his head slightly. The tiniest of shrugs.
“If you ever want to talk about it …”
Hush flashed her a humorless smirk.
“I mean …” Mia flailed slightly. “Write about it. If you wish it. I’m here.”
The boy stared into Mia’s eyes. And stepping back with a flick of his bruised wrist, he slammed the door right in her face. Mia flinched away, narrowly avoiding another broken nose. Hooked her thumbs into her belt and shrugged.
“… well, that went swimmingly …”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, shuffling down the corridor.
“… is this some stratagem …?”
“What, it’s so outrageous I give a damn?”
“… not outrageous. simply pointless …”
“Look, just because I don’t stand to gain from it, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care. They tortured him, Mister Kindly. Even though he doesn’t have a scar from it, doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark. And it’s like Naev said. I should look after the things that are important here.”
“… important? that boy is nothing to you …”
“I know I’m supposed to think of him as competition. I know there aren’t enough places for all of us among the Blades. But this Church is designed to turn me cold. So holding on to the part of me that can feel pity becomes more important every turn.”
“… pity is a weakness to be used against you. scaeva, duomo, and remus will not share it …”
“One more reason to hold on to it then, aye?”
“… hmph …”
“Pfft.”
“… grrrr …”
“Shut up.”
“… grow up …”
Laughter rang out and the shadows smiled.
“Never.”
The girl and the not-cat faded into the dark.
CHAPTER 19
MASQUERADE
Weeks flickered by in the darkness, untracked save for the tolling of bells and the serving of meals and hours upon hours of lore.1 Mia and Tric trained every turn after lessons, in either the Hall of Songs or the Hall of Truths. Every session in Songs saw Mia paired up with Jessamine or Diamo, and her blood painting the floor. And though in truth she found herself enjoying Tric’s company more and more, she began to wonder if he was the mentor she needed …
Winter was deepening and Great Tithe approaching, snows beginning to dress Godsgrave in gowns of muddy white. Nevernight after nevernight, pretty shadows Blood Walked from Adonai’s chambers and flitted out into the city in search of secrets, returning to lay them at Aalea’s feet. The Shahiid of Masks gave no indication who might be winning her contest.
The weaver continued her work, altering faces one by one. She wove Jessamine’s feral beauty into full bloom, honed Osrik’s natural good looks to a finer edge; even Petrus had got his missing ear back. The newly woven acolytes began making use of Aalea’s many weapons—minor games of flirt and touch breaking out during lessons or after. At mealtimes, Mia could feel a new current in the air. Furtive glances and secret smiles. For all the sweat and blood the acolytes were putting in, Mia figured they deserved it. Lessons were getting more grueling; almost half their number were already dead. She supposed a little harmless fun never hurt anyone.
And then came the masquerade.
The acolytes were summoned after evemeal, one and all, down into Adonai’s chambers. Without preamble they were ushered through the Blood Walk, one by one. Mia felt hungry eyes on her body as she stripped down to her slip, her eyes on others in turn. Emerging from the blood-red warmth beneath the Porkery, the acolytes were told to bathe thoroughly, dress quickly. The seventeen were then punted—by covered gondola, no less—to Godsgrave’s marrowborn quarter. Mia shipped out with Carlotta, Ashlinn, and Osrik, peering out through the canopy as the well-to-do estates of Godsgrave’s richest and most powerful cruised by. The Hands punting them were dressed in servants’ finery—gold-trimmed frock coats and silken hose. Saan’s bloody red glow was reduced to a sullen pout behind a heavy veil of roiling gray, but Mia still found herself squinting, pinching a pair of azurite spectacles to the bridge of her nose.
She looked Carlotta over from behind the tinted glass, admiring the poem Marielle had made of the girl’s face. The weaving had been done only a few turns prior, and it was hard not to notice the difference, or the way the other novices stared now it was done. Carlotta’s lips were fuller, her body more shapely. And where once an arkemical slavemark had marred the girl’s cheek, there was now only smooth, pale skin.
“The weaver knows her work,” Mia smiled.
Carlotta glanced at Mia, back out the window.
“… I suppose.”
“O, come, you look a picture, Lotti,” Ash protested. “Marielle is a master.”
At an elbow from his sister, Osrik piped up. “O, aye. A picture, no doubt.”
“It’s strange,” Carlotta murmured. “The things we miss.”
The girl touched the cheek where her slavemark used to be. Fingers tracing that now flawless skin. She said no more, and Mia was reluctant to push. But she could see memories swimming in the girl’s eyes as she stared at the passing city. Shadows that stained Carlotta’s irises a deeper blue.
Where had a slavegirl learned venomcraft?
What had driven her to join the Church?
Why was she here?
Mia knew Carlotta was competition for Spiderkiller’s prize above all else. That Mister Kindly had spoken true, and pity would be a weakness to be used against her. That she shouldn’t care.
But still, somehow she did.
Their gondola finally took berth at a small pier at the front of a grand five-story palazzo—the kind of home only the marrowborn might own.
“What the ’byss is all this about?” Mia whispered.
Ashlinn and Osrik both shrugged—seemed their da didn’t tell them everything after all. Mia checked her gravebone blade for the fourth time before stepping onto the jetty. The winds off the canal were icy, the pier slippery beneath her feet.
The acolytes were ushered into the palazzo’s foyer. The walls were red, hung with beautiful portraiture in the lush Liisian style.2 Vases full of flowers strung the air with a soft perfume, and a roaring fire burned at the graven hearth.
At the top of a grand and winding staircase stood Shahiid Aalea. Though she’d fancied it a silly turn of phrase only found in books, the sight of the woman actually took Mia’s breath away. The Shahiid was decked in a long, flowing gown, red as heart’s blood, embroidered with black lace and pearls. A drakebone corset pulled her waistline torturously tight, and an off-the-shoulder cut exposed smooth, cream-white skin. In her hand, she held a domino mask on a slender ivory wand.
Lotti’s eyes were wide, misgivings about her face momentarily forgotten.
“I would kill my own mother to get into a dress like that …”
“I would kill you and your mother to get into a dress like that,” Ash whispered.
“You want to dance, J?rnheim?” Lotti deadpanned. “Liisian silk brocade with a melphi-cut corset and matching gloves? I will bury you.”
Mia and Ash’s laughter was cut short as Aalea spoke, her voice soft as smoke.
“Acolytes,” she smiled. “Welcome, and thank you for coming. Three months have passed since your induction into the Red Church. We understand that lessons grow long and the hours weigh heavy, and so every once in a while, I convince the Ministry to allow you to … let your hair down, as it were.”
Aalea smiled at the novices the way the suns smiled at the sky.
“Great Tithe approaches, and as such, it is customary to give gifts to loved ones. Across the canal is the palazzo of Praetor Giuseppe Marconi, a wealthy young marrowborn don who throws some of the most delightful parties I’ve ever attended. This eve, the praetor hosts his traditional Great Tithe gala; a ball to which only the cream of Godsgrave society is invited. And invitations have been arranged … for you.”