NOMI

IT WAS ONLY Nomi’s second time outside the palazzo. The fresh air beyond the palace grounds should have been liberating. Instead, it sat in her lungs, as heavy and thick as oil. Cassia chattered excitedly as the boat cut across the canal to Bellaqua’s grand piazza, where the Heir awaited them. Maris looked like she wanted to tell the other girl to be quiet. But Nomi could only stare silently across the water and try to keep her expression neutral.

The note was again in her bodice.

Asa’s description of his contact ran through her mind on an endless loop: His name is Trevi. He wears a blue waistcoat. He works a stall of knives. He won’t get close to the carriages.

She still had no idea how she was going to manage to sneak away and find him. If he sold ribbons or fabric, she could feign interest in his wares. But knives? Why would a Grace examine a stall of knives?

And this was just the first hurdle of their plan. Assuming Luca passed the letter to Renzo with haste, as she’d requested, and Renzo made it back to Bellaqua before the Heir’s birthday, there were still several more steps to their plan, each with their own risks and uncertainty.

First, she would have to write another letter with explicit instructions on what to do the night of the ball. Asa would have to find a way to deliver it. She would tell Renzo to make the assassination attempt look threatening but without, in any way, putting the Superior in actual danger. He would have to simulate a struggle with Asa, who would come to his father’s aid. In the process, Renzo had to reveal Malachi as the man who hired him. Then he would need to escape the palace.

Second, Nomi would have to plant evidence in Malachi’s chambers: a letter from the assassin accepting the job.

And finally, on the day of the party, Asa would have to persuade his father to retire to an antechamber during the festivities, to facilitate the simulated attack.

If all of that happened as planned, Asa would immediately point the finger at Malachi, and subsequently find the additional evidence—the letter—in his room.

She’d thought it a risky, complicated, but reasonable plan when they’d dreamed it up that night on the terrace. But now, in the harsh light of day, with the letter pressing into her breast, it seemed absolutely ridiculous. Because all of that, all of that, hinged on her having a moment to herself to speak to a strange man in a crowded market. It was the first step, and likely the one that would kill all her hopes.

Nomi fought back a wave of nausea.

“Are you well?” Maris asked, putting a hand on Nomi’s arm. “You look quite ill.”

Nomi tried to clear her mind, but her stomach still rolled. Dark clouds crowded above the city buildings. “Thunderstorms terrify me,” she said faintly, nodding toward the threatening sky. It was true, and a testament to her other worries that she hadn’t noticed the weather until now.

Maris rubbed her arm reassuringly. “Those are just rain clouds, and still far away. We’ve had clouds linger like that on the horizon for days. It probably won’t even rain.”

Cassia broke in. “You’re afraid of thunderstorms?”

Nomi gritted her teeth.

With a little thud, the gondolier docked the boat at the piazza. In the square, a large carriage painted in black and gold waited, the Heir and his driver standing at attention beside it. The tall black horses snorted and shook their manes. Beyond the carriage, the piazza was filled with small carts: vendors selling fresh fruit, fabrics, even whole slaughtered pigs.

Nomi was the first off the boat. She wandered toward the market, endeavoring to look interested in the wares being sold, while her eyes searched frantically for a short man in a blue waistcoat.

She saw the knives first.

Silver flashing in the sun, with hilts of twisted metal inset with gems, the weapons were pieces of art. The cart was tucked between a stall of meat pies and one with racks of finely made gloves.

“Nomi!” Malachi grabbed her arm, and she flinched. “The others are waiting.”

The Heir led her toward the carriage. Inside her mind, Nomi wailed. She couldn’t risk pulling free of Malachi’s grip, but oh, she wanted to. This was her chance, most likely the only one she’d have. She had to put her head down to compose her face and hide her dismay.

The black-and-gold carriage was covered but open on the sides, with two cushioned benches that ran its length and a polished wooden floor. The driver leapt into the seat up front, just behind the two horses.

Cassia was waiting for the Heir. He handed her up into the carriage, and then Maris.

He helped Nomi up last, his hand warm and solid, and then sat beside her on the bench. Nomi was immediately aware of the Heir’s leg pressing against hers, their knees knocking together as the carriage moved slowly across the cobbled piazza. She watched the small stall of knives and the small man with the blue waistcoat out of the window until they disappeared from view. She wanted to scream.

You have one more chance, she reminded herself, trying to stave off the wave of hopelessness threatening to crush her. When the carriage returns. One more chance.

“How are you this morning, Nomi?” the Heir asked. Today he was wearing a thin white shirt and soft leather trousers. In other circumstances, she might have thought he looked handsome.

“I’m well, Your Eminence,” Nomi said, trying to sound as if it were true.

“Ines says we’re to visit a perfumery?” Cassia said, edging into the conversation. She leaned toward the Heir, her curves on full display in her orange-and-yellow gown.

Malachi nodded.

“Do you have a favorite scent, Your Eminence?” Cassia asked. “The other day, you mentioned you don’t much like fresh flowers.” She flaunted her knowledge of the Heir to the girls she saw as her competition, but Nomi knew, even if Cassia didn’t, that the blond-haired girl was the only one who wanted to be here. Maris and Nomi would lose no sleep if the Heir showered only Cassia with his attention.

Nomi felt Malachi’s imperceptible shrug. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Then we’ll have to guess,” Cassia said coquettishly. “Perhaps one of us will find the perfect fragrance to entice you.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling noncommittally. He turned his attention to Maris, and Nomi caught the disappointment in Cassia’s eyes before the girl smoothed her expression.

“Maris,” Malachi said. “What do you enjoy most about the palace?”

Maris smiled, letting her hair fall back from her face. She looked like a doll: flawless and empty. “The opportunity to spend time with you, Your Eminence.”

His arm tensed against Nomi’s. “Of course,” he replied.

When he made no further effort at conversation, Nomi shifted to watch the city trundle past. The carriage clomped down narrow roadways and clattered over arched bridges. Red-flowered vines climbed along nooks and crannies in the stone houses, and laundry hung above the streets like windless sails. The dark gray clouds built higher on the west side of the city. The carriage would travel down a long stretch of cobbled road with nothing but sun above, only to turn a corner and reveal an ominous creep of cloud.

Nomi hoped Maris was right and it was only rain coming. She’d been scared of thunderstorms since she was a child. She could remember with visceral horror the storms that would come roaring through the valley, flinging rain sideways and shaking their apartment with every crack of thunder. Back then, Serina would climb into bed with her and they would ride it out together. Serina would sing her lullabies, and Nomi would tremble until long after the storm had passed.

With a clatter, the carriage rolled to a stop outside a glass-fronted shop. Malachi climbed down and reached up a hand to help each Grace. Nomi alighted on the cobbles and tilted, her shoe catching on the uneven ground. The Heir steadied her, pulling her a little closer than she liked.

He had none of the coiled energy or liquid grace of Asa. He was strong and solid and intensely focused. She wilted under the weight of his gaze.

How could she sneak off on her errand without him seeing, without him noticing? It would be impossible.

When they entered the perfumery, Nomi flinched at its luminous glow, brighter than the hazy morning outside. The large room was filled with small, mirrored tables arranged in precise rows. More mirrors hung from the walls, reflecting back at each other. It gave the space a surreal feel, as if one could step into the mirrored wall and continue forever.

On each table rested a small cut-crystal bottle, a bowl of coffee beans, and a jar of cotton puffs. Cassia looked around with her hands pressed to her chest and giggled with delight.

Nomi and Maris huddled together near the door.

“Perfume makes me sneeze,” Maris whispered.

“That could be useful as a deterrent,” Nomi replied under her breath.

Maris made an odd noise, part laugh and part snort.

Malachi glanced back at them. Nomi fought to contain the hysterical laughter bubbling up her throat.

At that moment, the perfumer emerged from a back room and strode quickly to the Heir’s side. The man was short and portly, with a tuft of white hair encircling the bald crown of his head and round spectacles resting on his nose. He bowed deeply. “Your Eminence, it is my honor that you have chosen to visit today.”

“Thank you, Signor. I’m sorry my father couldn’t accompany us, as was his wish,” the Heir replied.

Malachi turned to his Graces. “The signor has graciously agreed to share his space with us for a few hours. Please sample the perfumes and find one that suits you. When you’ve made your selection, inform me and it will be my pleasure to arrange a bottle for your personal use.”

Graciously agreed… Nomi stifled a laugh. As if the signor had a choice.

Nomi curtsied with the others. She was about to turn to Maris and ask where she wanted to begin, when the Heir stepped in front of her. He held out his hand, all polite gentleman, and gestured to the nearest table. “Shall we find a scent that suits you?”

Reluctantly, Nomi placed her hand in his. She glanced over her shoulder. Maris stared fixedly at the selections on a nearby table, while Cassia dabbed some perfume onto a cotton puff and sniffed delicately.

Malachi held out a damp bit of cotton. “What about this one?”

Nomi leaned a little closer to smell it and wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not. Smells like rotten peaches.”

The Heir raised a brow and held the puff to his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You say rotten, I would say… overripe.”

She forced a laugh. He moved on to the next table. She trailed behind, annoyed and bemused at the same time. She hadn’t expected him to sample the perfumes with her. She’d assumed he would stand off to the side and watch his Graces with that terrifyingly intense gaze of his.

Nomi smelled orange oil, which made her skin crawl at the memory of the Superior grabbing her on the boat. When Malachi offered it, she just shook her head. There was plumeria, which was sweet and simple but not popular with the Heir, and a bright, grassy scent that Nomi didn’t mind but didn’t love either.

Cassia giggled and preened her way through the shop in a veiled bid for attention, but Nomi found herself taking the task seriously. Maybe because focusing on the hints of spice and sandalwood distracted her from the letter hidden in her bodice. The hopeless task she nonetheless still hoped she could perform.

“This one is nice,” Malachi said, offering her another cotton.

This scent she couldn’t identify. It made her think of cold, snowy evenings in Lanos, with a hint of wood smoke and something crisp and bracing. Tears pricked her eyes.

“May I have this one, Your Eminence?” she asked softly. She dabbed a little on her wrists and breathed in the scent again. “It reminds me of home.”

Malachi bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Nomi said, with a small curtsy. “And thank you for bringing us on this outing, Your Eminence. It was very generous of you.”

He shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be cooped up in the palazzo.”

“Don’t you mean caged?” Nomi said without thinking.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

Malachi’s attention sharpened. “Is that how you feel?”

“No, of course not,” Nomi covered quickly. “The palace is beautiful. A dream. It’s just been so long since I’ve left its walls and I’ve always wanted to see Bellaqua. It’s been a gift to see it today.”

And suddenly, Nomi knew how to get to Trevi.

“In fact, Your Eminence, I… I would like to give you a gift as well,” she said shyly. She glanced sidelong at him in time to see surprise flash across his face. “To show my appreciation. May I pick something out for you at the market?”

She held her breath. Would he find a trinket from market beneath him? Would he question her motives?

Please.

“You don’t owe me anything, Nomi,” he said, and for once his voice didn’t sound gruff or distant.

“I know I don’t,” she said a little too quickly. “But surely I can be kind? You were kind to me today.”

He rubbed his chin. “Very well. If you wish.”

With a bow, he shifted his attention to Cassia, and then Maris. By the time they had chosen their perfumes, the sky had darkened and thunder rumbled in the distance.

As Malachi helped her into the carriage, Nomi fought her mounting panic. This wouldn’t work if it began raining before they arrived at the piazza.

The ride was quiet, the four of them shifting with the bumps of the cobbled street. Nomi kept an eye on the swollen clouds and the shards of lightning that crackled within them.

The carriage stopped a few minutes later. When the Heir helped her down, Nomi didn’t pull her hand away so quickly this time. This ruse depended on her acting softened toward him, on him believing she actually wanted to do something nice for him. It might even serve her well for her second task, securing an invitation to his room so she could plant the damning letter.

She remembered something her mother had said once to Serina, years ago: “Your ability to mask your true feelings, your true self, will be your greatest weapon.”

“I need a weapon?” Serina had asked.

Their mother had lifted her chin. “Every woman does.”

As Malachi helped down the other Graces, Nomi headed to the row of carts in the piazza’s center. The air hung thick around her. To her dismay, some vendors had already left, probably to avoid the storm, which threatened to break at any moment. Trevi was packing up his knives.

No.

But the glove vendor next to the knife stand was still open. She hurried over. Malachi would follow shortly, she was sure. He was probably watching her now.

She ran a hand over the soft leather of a pair of black gloves, then glanced over her shoulder. Malachi had turned to speak with the driver. She spun away from the glove vendor, slipped a hand into her bodice, and extracted the letter. Trevi was bent nearly double to place his velvet-wrapped daggers into the shelving built into the lower half of his cart.

She shoved the letter at him, her hand trembling. He looked up in surprise.

“From His Eminence Asa,” she mumbled. “It’s urgent or he would have brought it himself.”

There was time for Trevi to give her a short, wordless nod, when she heard footsteps on the cobbles. She turned back to the glove vendor and caressed another set of gloves, these a rich brown.

Malachi appeared beside her.

She lifted the gloves. “I like these, Your Eminence. Are they a worthy gift?”

She had no money. But she was hoping the merchant wouldn’t accept payment from the Heir. That it was the choosing of the gift, not the purchasing of it, that had value.

Malachi nodded at the merchant.

She handed the Heir the gloves, their hands brushing as he accepted them.

“Thank you,” he said.

Just then, the first fat drops of rain fell.

They hurried to the canal, where Maris and Cassia were waiting in a large black gondola. As soon as Nomi and the Heir climbed in, the gondolier set off with urgency.

Nomi couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. She’d done it. If all went according to plan, she’d see Renzo in just under a fortnight.

And, someday, Serina.

The rain dinged against her beaded dress, darkening the silver. She flinched when the sky flashed above them. Thunder shook the boat, loud enough to hurt her ears. With the stress of her task relieved, her fear of thunderstorms rose. When the boat docked, she scrambled onto shore before the Heir could help her.

“Excuse me, Your Eminence,” she murmured, her voice cracking.

Behind her, she heard Cassia say something cutting, just as a great gust of wind swept her hair back from her face, and the storm shot arrows of cold rain at her. Thunder roared.

She was hurrying frantically toward the palazzo when a hand grabbed her arm. “This way.”

The Heir led her along a path to the right of the staircase, into a twisting garden. Lightning raced across the sky. He pulled her under an overhang, out of the worst of the rain. Gooseflesh rose along Nomi’s exposed arms. It felt like Lanos in the late summer, when storms lashed the valley and the air cooled, making way for the sharper winds of fall.

She looked around, but they were alone.

“I’ve found something you’re afraid of,” the Heir said.

Nomi stared up at Malachi through her wind-whipped hair. “You think storms are all I’m afraid of?”

Lightning flashed, sparking in his eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

Nomi leveled a stare at him. “Don’t you want me to be?”

His voice rose against a rumble of thunder. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” Nomi swayed. The rain was picking up, great bursts of it pouring onto the garden. The overhang did little to protect them. Her hair and dress stuck to her skin, heavy with water. Her heart beat too fast, urging her to flee.

“This. Different. Defiant.” Malachi took a step toward her, but it almost looked as if he fought the impulse, a frown thinning his lips. His eyes showed a strain she didn’t understand. “I don’t know if I’m meant to be punishing you, or—”

“Do your worst,” Nomi said madly, the storm egging her on. “You’ve already sent my sister away. Made me yours.”

“You never respond the way I expect.” Malachi ran a hand through his wet hair. He looked out at the hedges, streaming with rain. “When I chose you… I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know why—”

“I do,” she said, rain lashing her face. She couldn’t hold her tongue; she couldn’t be demure. Not when she stood in the center of a thunderstorm, her fear and fury raging just as loud. “Because you wanted to break my spirit. Isn’t that it? That’s what your father said.”

“He does not speak for me,” he snapped, shocking her. “I am not my father.”

“No,” she said, thinking of what Asa had said. Volatile. “You’re worse.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Frustration filled his voice. Lightning illuminated his reddened cheeks. She cringed at the brightness. “You’re—”

Nomi stepped up to him, an inch away, her heart pounding. “What?” she challenged.

He stared down at her through the flashing rain. “Dangerous.”

His lips found hers with the force of a thunderclap. She froze for an instant, and then she found herself yielding, slick with rain, fevered and shaking. He gripped her tightly, his embrace both a protection from the storm and its own tempest.

With a gasp, Nomi tore herself away. His full lips were parted, his chest rising and falling quickly, as if he’d been running.

She turned into the driving rain and fled.