And I will. I’m going to walk down the aisle in front of everybody—everybody—in the whole city and get the life I deserve. I’m not afraid. I have nothing to hide.
My papá pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out. It’s a golden spiderweb pin that matches the one on his chest.
“You’re a Ragno,” he says. “Make sure they remember that, too.”
In spite of myself, I hesitate. I planned the rose embroidery on my skirts and the spiderweb lace on my sleeves for a reason. I want to tell people who I am in my own way.
But of course I’ll make an exception for my papá. We’re a team. I take the pin.
Just as I finish attaching it to my chest, the doors to the inner chamber of the cathedral swing open. And for a split second, I wonder if this was really a good idea. For a split second, I’m wishing I was still hidden in the prayer room. But it’s too late to change my mind now.
The organ music hits me like a wall of sound. The pews squeal as everybody in Occhia leaps to their feet. As my papá guides me forward, I suddenly appreciate how massive this place is. It’s pew after pew and arch after arch and column after column, and they all converge on the golden altar in the distance, where Ale is nothing but a dark smudge in the candlelight.
I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead as we parade past the masses. I can tell when we reach the pews where the noble families sit, because I nearly choke on the mass of perfumes. The whispering gets louder, too. Everyone is either delighted or horrified by my dress. Either one is fine with me.
My feet have grown sweaty in their silk slippers by the time we pass my family. I don’t look over, but I can hear Paola trying to shush my demon little brothers and my army of tiny cousins. We pass a row of stoic guards, their red coats barely visible at the edges of my vision. And all by herself, in the very first pew, is the only person who didn’t stand for me.
The watercrea.
I’ve seen the watercrea from a distance before. I don’t have to look to know that she has startlingly white skin and sleek dark hair, and she always wears a brilliant red gown. She looks only a little older than me, but she’s looked that way since the city began.
God made Occhia and everyone in it, but there’s one thing even he can’t make—water. The watercrea is the only person with the power to do that. Her magic lets her control blood and turn it into water, and for a thousand years, she’s been using it to keep us alive.
The watercrea takes her blood from our people. Once their first omen appears, they give themselves to her, and she locks them in her tower and slowly, carefully drains their blood into our underground well. In a matter of hours, they’re gone.
I don’t even bother to look at her as I pass by. Today isn’t about her and her tower and her prisoners with omens. It’s about me.
Ale is standing at the center of the altar, fidgeting erratically. His willowy mamma is at his side, watching me approach with a wavering mouth and dread in her eyes. As my papá kisses my cheek and deposits me next to Ale, two delicious, crystalline tears run down her cheeks.
I spend every day with Ale, but I’m always a little bit alarmed by how tall and gangly he’s become in the last couple of years. Ale has his mamma’s pale skin and graceful features. He could be handsome if he tried, but he’s too busy being gawky and utterly embarrassed by his own existence. Right now, his enormous brown eyes are taking in the crowd, and his panic is slowly growing—as if anyone is really staring at him when they have the option to stare at me. I reach over and take his hand, pointedly pulling him closer. His fingers are trembling and clammy, so maybe he won’t notice that mine are, too.
The organ stops, and in the ringing silence, we turn around to face the priest. Somebody in the crowd coughs softly, and it echoes in the cavernous space. A pew creaks. Ale’s mamma sniffles. Then the priest starts to sing, and his opening prayer drowns it all out.
I sneak another glance at Ale. The traditional black jacket of the House of Morandi, embroidered with gold thread and green ivy leaves, looks wide on his thin frame. His head is bent in pious concentration, but I can still feel him shaking. I squeeze his hand, and he gives me a slow sideways look and squeezes back.
Tonight, after the celebration, we’ll retire to our bedroom in his family’s house, officially allowed to be alone for the first time. I know exactly what’s going to happen. We’re going to eat chocolates and open our wedding gifts and gossip about the silly things people did at our reception. He’s going to fall asleep with a book in his lap, and I’m going to stay awake and plan everything for us, because tomorrow, it all truly begins.
I knew everything would be fine. This is my life. Nobody controls it except for me.
Then the priest stops in the middle of his prayer.
I lift my head. The priest’s wide eyes are fixed on something over my shoulder. Slowly, I realize that a strange hush has fallen over the crowd. No one is coughing. No one is shifting in the pews. Even Ale’s mamma has stopped sniffling, and when I turn around, I see why.
The watercrea has left her pew. She’s standing in the middle of the aisle, and her eyes are on me.
TWO
WHEN THE WATERCREA STANDS, EVERYONE ELSE BOWS.
They don’t use the kneelers in the pews, because those are for praying to God, and God can’t do what the watercrea does. Everybody in the cathedral drops to the stone floor. They disappear behind the pews, and abruptly, it looks like the building is empty.
For a moment, I’m mesmerized. With one move, the woman in the red gown has the entire city at her feet.
It must be nice.
I’m vaguely aware that Ale is already on his knees, tugging on my hand, and that the watercrea is gliding toward us. She stops a few paces away. In the shadows of the candlelight, her face is unreadable.
There’s a distant little voice in my head, and it’s screaming at me that I’m the only one still standing. I should kneel. I should run. I should do something. Anything.
The watercrea lifts a pale hand and beckons over her shoulder, and one of her guards crawls out of his pew and runs forward.
“The bride,” the watercrea says in a soft voice.
It feels inevitable. It feels like I’ve been holding a fine crystal glass that’s slipped out of my fingers, and all I can do is watch it fall and wait for the explosion of shards.
The guard walks toward me. In his outstretched hand is something small and glinting, and when I realize it’s a knife, I take a clumsy step back. Ale’s grip on my hand tightens. But the guard stops an arm’s length away, and for a long moment, he just stares at me. His face is expectant.
He’s waiting for me to confess, I realize dimly. At this point, in front of God and everyone, any other Occhian would confess.
I lift my chin and regard him with disdain.
He lunges forward. He grabs my arm and yanks me away from Ale.
Obviously, I know how this is supposed to go. I’m Emanuela Ragno, and this is my wedding day. If a guard dares to interrupt and pull me around like he owns me, he regrets it.
It’s just that I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that he actually came after me. I can’t comprehend his hands, heavy and foreign, on my arm. On my shoulders.
I can’t let this happen. I have to do something.