“But I want to pretend this is normal. That this is what I do. I am the Girl Who Sees Without Eyes. I can make an illusion. I can fool them all.”
He nods, but, from his expression, I can tell he doesn’t understand. He gives me a hug, and I press my nose and mask into his shoulder. “Be careful,” he says.
“Always am.”
“Break a leg.”
“Naturally.”
He pulls away, his face stern and shadowed. I don’t want him to worry about me. Nicoleta and I will walk out of that wedding alive and with the leader.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “Afterward.”
“Tomorrow.”
*
The limit of my illusion is nine minutes and twelve seconds.
“You will need to enter the cathedral quickly and find a place to conceal yourself while Nicoleta finds Dalimil,” Chimal says.
Nicoleta nods. I’m accustomed to seeing her fatigued, with dark circles under her eyes, complaining of a headache as she hunches over to do our laundry. But this week, she holds her head high and is fueled solely by excitement. I wish I could enjoy the thrill of this as she does. As much as I adore performing, I prefer when I have control. But the success of this mission depends on too many random factors.
“You’ll be entering with the other guests through the main entrance, but they will only see Nicoleta. The guards outside will ask you to produce your invitation, and we have a copy of one here.” Chimal slides Nicoleta a piece of golden parchment. “Your name is Lady Michala, the daughter of a distant count. The real Lady Michala has the snaking sickness, so she will not be attending.”
Nicoleta hands me the parchment, and it’s nearly impossible to read the intricate Up-Mountain calligraphy. An embellished yellow sun of Ovren glints at the top of the page.
“Sorina, once inside, you will conceal yourself somewhere and give yourself time to recuperate. Because of this, we think it’s best if you are dressed as a nun, someone who, if seen, will still escape notice. It’ll also allow you to keep most of your face covered.”
I don’t love the idea of dressing up as an Up-Mountainer. I don’t want to wear their clothes. I don’t want to look as if I belong in such a terrible place.
“Dalimil will likely be seated near the front. Repeat again what he looks like.”
“He’s six foot two, approximately sixty years old,” Nicoleta says, barely hesitating a moment to think. “Fair features and a crooked nose. His most notable characteristic is his one blue eye and one green eye.”
“That will require Nicoleta to get rather close,” I say.
“You’ll have several opportunities to do so. First, when he is entering. Second, in Up-Mountain weddings, every member of the congregation must throw flower petals into the water the priest shall bless. And third, while leaving.” Chimal studies me. “Sorina, you’ll need to cast an illusion to conceal Nicoleta when she makes her move. Then you must quickly get the three of you out. Dalimil is a large man, but Nicoleta should have no difficulty carrying him. There will be a carriage waiting for you outside.”
I stare at the blueprint of the cathedral in front of us on the table. The congregation appears massive, easily several thousand people. I don’t have that sort of range. Or endurance.
“I have a horrible feeling that this isn’t going to work,” I say.
“Three fortune-workers have already prophesized that we will be victorious.”
As Luca would say, you shouldn’t put too much stock in fortune-workers.
“We cannot lose, Sorina,” Chimal says.
“We cannot lose,” I echo. I certainly hope he’s right.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The two-hundred-and-four-story Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is fabled as the tallest building in the world. Constructed of solid black stone, it towers over the skyline, not unlike the spires of the Menagerie. It appears like a giant spindle, though it is meant, when the sun is positioned directly over its peak, to resemble a torch. I now understand why Chimal was so eager initially for Hawk’s help, as Hawk could easily enter from above and descend the likely thousands of steps below, completely unnoticed.
It’s difficult to imagine that, in a mere hour, I’ll be in that cathedral.
Four of us approach the city from the hillside road, our carriage freshly painted to appear more regal than anything owned by Gomorrah. Chimal has shed his normal red and black captain uniform for the clothes of a passing peasant. Villiam wears his usual suit, as elegant as any of the other wedding guests. The many layers of Nicoleta’s gown take up nearly an entire seat in our carriage, leaving me only a foot of space in the corner. With the peach fabric, the peachier rouge and her pale complexion, she resembles any Up-Mountain patron who visits Gomorrah. Her transformation is nearly unnerving, especially when she speaks in her practiced accent.
Where Nicoleta is all beauty and elegance, I look—as Venera would say—frumpy and old. The black clothes of a postulant cover every inch of my skin, complete with gloves and heavy leather boots. I’m thankful I told Luca not to come. I feel ridiculous. But at least the absurdity of the costume makes the situation feel lighter.
We’re about to risk our lives.
In the distance, toward the city, a hillside fire clouds the sky with the smoke of Agni’s jynx-work, meant to distract the guards as guests arrive. That, too, is a comfort, even if it’s blacker than the smoke of Gomorrah behind us.
Villiam kisses my forehead. “Be strong.”
“I will be,” I say.
“I love you so much. And I’m very, very proud of you.”
His praise strengthens my resolve, and I smile at him. “I love you, too.”
Even as we grow closer to the city, the cathedral’s tower still seems far in the distance. I don’t believe in Ovren or any Down-Mountain god, but it feels as though a higher power is observing us from that tower, aware of our ill intent. I am no fortune-worker, but I sense doom.
The carriage pauses so that Villiam and Chimal can leave. I hug my father once more, but I don’t say anything. I want to appear strong. I am Sorina Gomorrah, daughter of this city, and this is my destiny.
We abandon them on the hills.
Our driver, a member of the Gomorrah guard, says nothing. He has instructions to remain in the vicinity of the cathedral and await our return, no matter what.
We enter the city gates. They aren’t as impressive as the gates of Cartona, yellow and gleaming. Just as Cartona was the golden city, Sapris is gray, blending into the stone of its hills, silent and shrouded. Even with all our preparation, I’m not certain what awaits me there.
“You look tense,” Nicoleta says. “You need to relax.”
“I’m trying to,” I say.
“It’s just another performance.”