“Well,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “maybe it won’t spread. Let’s wait and see.”
She got up to fold my clothes, and I stared at my skin. I waited, barely breathing, because I knew how the omens worked. I knew when adults were worried about me, and Paola looked worried. I knew she was just trying to delay the inevitable.
But the omen didn’t spread. And for the next ten years, it kept not spreading.
For ten years, I’ve been waiting to feel the hand of God again. For ten years, I’ve woken up in the morning and practically torn my nightgown in my desperation to look, sure that I was going to find myself covered.
Everyone else’s omens spread quickly. Everyone else dies in a matter of hours.
But not me.
I have my arm outside the bars, trying to get a grip on the lock on my cell door, when I see the shadow of a man on the stairs. I withdraw my hand just as a guard in red comes stomping by. He slows down as he reaches me.
“You shouldn’t take the needle out,” he says. “We need that blood.”
“Ah, hello at last,” I say. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My omens aren’t spreading. See?”
He looks me over. His gaze feels like cold fingers. I’ve never been naked in front of anyone but my nursemaid, but that’s certainly changed. I casually put my hand over my hip and leave the rest uncovered. I’ve always designed my gowns to assure people that I have plenty of unmarked skin—so much that I couldn’t possibly have anything to hide.
“Now, listen—what’s your name?” I say.
The guard is still studying me. He’s older, around my parents’ age, with broad shoulders and a bushy mustache. He probably inherited his red uniform from his father. Being a guard comes with a house and generous rations, and if he walks through any neighborhood’s art market, people will hand him things for free. But they won’t meet his eyes.
“My daughter works for the House of Bianchi,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I assume,” I say, already knowing they won’t be.
“You’re the one who put the spiders in Signorina Bianchi’s bed,” he says.
One of my finer moments. Chiara Bianchi and I have always had a lively rivalry. At a recent party, she decided to spread very creative rumors about the things my betrothed and I were doing in bed—and the number of people we were doing them with. I found it hilarious. Until I saw that Ale did not. A few days later, on what just so happened to be the morning of her wedding, Chiara woke to discover a truly alarming number of spiders under her covers. And on her pillow. The hideous purple bite on her cheek went very well with her bridal gown.
“Oh, she blames me for it, does she?” I say. “Perhaps she should ask herself why her bed was so dusty it was attracting spiders. What’s your name?”
The guard doesn’t answer me.
“No matter,” I say. “I’ve seen your face. I won’t forget it. Keep that in mind as you decide whether or not to help me.”
A smile creeps onto his face. It’s edged with condescension.
“You’re not the first person to try and threaten me,” he says. “But our duty in death comes for us all. Even noble brides.”
He’s wrong. One tiny omen on my hip doesn’t mean anything. I’m obviously not like everyone else, and this obviously isn’t my duty.
“Isn’t it dreadful to work in the place you’re going to die?” I say. “Which of these cells will be yours someday?”
“I serve my people now, and I’ll serve them then,” he says.
“What if your daughter gets her omens before you?” I say. “Will you be the one to strip her and lock her up?”
“When she’s meant to pass on, she’ll do so with honor,” he says.
It’s the same way every other Occhian talks about it. Nobody should be so resigned about death.
“What if she wasn’t truly about to die?” I say. “What if she hadn’t gotten enough time to do everything she wanted?”
His eyes flit over me again, but he’s growing detached.
“Listen to the people all around you,” he says. “Do you think any of them had enough time to do everything they wanted?”
“I don’t hear any other people,” I say.
“Stop clawing so loudly at the lock of your cell, and you will,” he says.
He turns away.
“Wait—” I say. “You can’t leave me here. My omens aren’t going to spread. You’ll see.”
He’s already thumping down the stairs.
“I’m going to be the head of the House of Morandi,” I say. “They can give you anything you want. You know that. And once they see how you’ve imprisoned me for no reason—”
He’s gone. I clamp my mouth shut and cross my arms. I refuse to yell after him like I’m desperate.
The silence of the tower settles around me like a thick blanket. But it doesn’t last. Because now that he told me to listen, I can hear it.
In the cell next to mine, somebody is breathing, slow and ragged and horrible. Somewhere above me, there’s a muffled sob that sends a shiver down my spine.
Death in the tower is supposed to be quick. The watercrea takes as much blood as she can, but she’s racing against the omens. Once the omens spread, it’s over.
Maybe these people are dying quickly. But it doesn’t sound like they’re dying painlessly.
I draw back into the shadows, trying to hide from the sounds. I’ll convince the guard next time. I can’t let this go on for too long. I have things to do and people who need me.
My papá needs me. He has two sons, but I’m still his favorite. He used to sit with me in the library after my lessons, teaching me his version of history and answering all the invasive questions I wasn’t supposed to ask. He used to take me on tours of Parliament and show me the offices of the House of Morandi and tell me it would be mine someday. He used to tell me about the laws we could pass and the power we could hold if we worked together. We’re a team, and we have so much ahead of us.
Paola needs me. Paola is a devout Occhian who prays before every drink of water and never breaks a law, and yet, she looked the other way so that I could stay free. She became a nursemaid, forever unmarried, because she can’t bear children of her own. I was never just a job to her.
And Ale needs me most of all. We’ve been together ever since the day our nursemaids plopped our tiny bodies side by side on my bedroom floor. Ale was clutching his favorite doll, which I immediately grabbed. Ale didn’t lift a finger in protest. He just watched as I mixed his precious toy in with mine. At the time, he was so quiet his family thought he’d never learn to speak, but I started talking and, to his nursemaid’s astonishment, he talked back. He’s my best friend, and we’re not in love, but I love him. He knows that.
My legs grow stiff. I’m stretching them out when two guards appear and reach for my cell door. It swings open with a creak.
I knew they would realize their mistake. I dive for the exit.
“You really want to make this hard, don’t you?” one of them says.
It all happens very fast. One of the guards yanks my arms over my head and wraps a chain around my wrists. The other one gets me onto my back. And then the needle is in my neck again, and my cell door is slamming, and I try to sit up but discover that my chain is also wrapped around the bars. I’m trapped.