Ale goes deathly quiet. The stealing in question happened two nights ago at a dinner party. He thought I didn’t see him. But we’re best friends. I always see.
“I meant to give it back,” he says feebly. “But Manfredo was talking to all the boys from his calcio club, and they’re so intimidating—”
“Don’t tell me I’m going to step into your bedroom and find it covered in Manfredo’s snotty handkerchiefs,” I say. “My fragile constitution can’t take it.”
“It’s not about the snot, Emanuela—there was a cologne smell on it. I just like the…” His voice is rapidly dwindling. “Never mind.”
Alessandro Morandi and I were betrothed seventeen years ago, when we had just emerged from our respective mothers’ wombs. No one asked us how we felt about the matter, because that’s not what our marriage is about. Our marriage is about the fact that we can make the heirs the House of Morandi needs. That’s why, in accordance with tradition, we put this day off until my first bleeding arrived.
My first bleeding took quite a while. Some of my peers were married at thirteen. Everyone wants as much time as they can get, because after all, the oldest Occhian in history lived to fifty before her first omen appeared. Most people don’t even come close to that.
Ale and I may be arriving to the altar late—late enough that it’s inspired gossip—but we’ve arrived. In just a few minutes, I’ll be a duchess with some actual power, and everyone is going to see what I can do with it. And then they’re going to regret their gossiping.
“Did you actually make a new gown?” Ale says. “Of course you did. Is it decent?”
“That depends on your definition of decent,” I say, taking a moment to admire what little cleavage I have. It’s vastly improved by the rouge.
“Oh no,” he whispers.
“Oh yes,” I say.
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Are you nervous?” he says. “At all?”
I realize I’m smoothing down my silk skirts, over and over. Even though he can’t see me, I jerk my hands back to the altar.
“What could I possibly be nervous about?” I say.
“Everybody in the city staring at us. Everybody. What if I trip, or forget the prayers, or vomit like I did during First Rites, or—never mind.” He sighs. “You don’t get nervous.”
“Are you really nervous about everybody staring at you?” I say. “You need to get used to the jealous looks, Signor Morandi, grand duke of Occhia. They’re not going anywhere.”
He makes an uncomfortable noise. In Ale’s ideal life, he sits in his room all day reading novels about other people’s feelings and drama and convoluted webs of romance. In his actual life, he’s about to become the head of the wealthiest house in Occhia, and he’ll be expected to lead Parliament and talk to a lot of people and make a lot of decisions. That’s why we’re a perfect match. I’m good at making decisions, and he’s good at following me.
From the heart of the cathedral, the organ starts blaring. The priests knock on both of our doors at the same time. Ale groans, and his kneeler squeaks as he stands.
“Ale, wait.” I press my hand against the cold screen between us.
“You’re planning something, aren’t you?” he says in a panic. “I knew it. Please don’t be rude to the priest in front of everyone. Please don’t make jokes during the vows. I can’t, Emanuela. I can’t. Not today—”
“Kneel back down,” I say.
“But the priests are—”
“They can wait.”
He kneels back down. When I lean closer, I can feel his apprehension seeping through the barrier between us.
“All you have to do is stand there,” I say softly. “Don’t think about the other people in the cathedral. They don’t matter. If you get too nervous, just take my hand. Nothing is going to happen to you.” I consider. “And if you do vomit, I’ll take all my clothes off, and then no one will be able to talk about anything but me.”
He sighs. He rests his head on the screen, and little tufts of his dark hair poke through.
“All I have to do is stand there,” he says, mostly to himself. “You’re right. I can do that. I can do that—”
He pulls away.
The next time we’re alone, we’ll be husband and wife. I promised myself I’d tell him the truth before we were husband and wife. And even though I knew exactly how my wedding would play out, it still feels like this part has snuck up on me.
“Ale—” I say.
“What?” he says. He sounds much calmer than he did moments ago. He sounds like he’s almost ready for what’s about to happen. I have that effect on him.
This morning, I woke up so early that the veil was still black. I crept onto my balcony and leaned on the iron railing, shivering in the chilly air, and I looked down the street to the grand House of Morandi. I found Ale’s bedroom window, at the very top. The candle on the sill was dark, of course. Every night, he lights his, and I light mine. He sits in his room reading, and I sit in mine scheming and sewing, and when we go to bed, we blow them out. I realized that after today, we won’t need that little ritual anymore, because we’ll be together. I imagined a life married to some other Occhian boy who would see me as a means to an end, not as his friend, and I was certain I was the luckiest girl in the city.
I have to tell him now. He’ll understand.
I open my mouth. “I—”
Or maybe I don’t. It’s not like anything is going to happen. We have nothing to be nervous about.
“I was going to remind you not to lock your knees when you’re standing at the altar,” I say. “If you’re going to faint, let it be because you’re overwhelmed by my beauty.”
“Don’t lock my knees,” he repeats. “Don’t lock my knees—There’s so much to remember—”
He disappears, and I wait in the heavy, perfumed silence. When Padre Busto opens my door, I flinch.
My papá is waiting for me at the front of the cathedral, poised in front of the enormous double doors that lead to the inner chamber. He’s in his usual crisp black suit, and the crests of our family are pinned to his chest—a small golden rose, for the House of Rosa, and a golden spiderweb, for the House of Ragno. When he sees me, he raises his eyebrows.
“What are you wearing, my little spider?” he says.
“Not the old rag Mamma gave me,” I say. “That’s for certain.”
Everybody says I look just like my mamma, because we have the same shiny dark hair and the same sharp features. But Paola insists the Papá in me overshadows everything else. She claims we have the same look in our eyes. It says, I get what I want, and I don’t care what it takes.
“How clever of you,” my papá says, taking my arm. “Nobody ever remembers the people in these ceremonies. They all look the same.”
Our family has lived in the same manor, passing down the same low-level seat in Parliament, since the city began. But now, we have my papá. When I was a day old, he planted himself in the parlor of the richest house in Occhia and refused to leave until they betrothed their newborn son to his newborn daughter. He spent the next seventeen years preparing me—not to be a spouse, but to be the head of a household and the head of our government. My mamma doesn’t understand me. She wants me to dress like her and have babies like her and spend my life quietly tending to a home. My papá wants me to have more than any other Ragno has ever had.