The Rose Society

Why so surprised that you are worthy?

I lift one hand and hold my palm out. A black stem gradually weaves into existence, sprouting dark thorns and spiked leaves. The stem grows until it blossoms into a dark red rose. It hovers in the center of us, not quite a solid object, still shimmering from the newness of its own creation.

“A pledge,” I say, looking at each of them in turn. My stare settles on Violetta. She stares silently at me, looking straight through the rose and into my heart, as if seeing something that no one else can see. My voice hardens. “A pledge,” I say again. “To drive fear into those who will confront us.”

Violetta hesitates—only for a moment. “To bind us together.”

“I pledge myself to the Rose Society,” I begin. “Until the end of my days.”

One by one, the others call out the same thing, murmurs at first that turn into firm words.

“To use my eyes to see all that happens,” says Sergio.

“My tongue to woo others to our side,” says Magiano, with his savage smile.

“My ears to hear every secret,” Violetta continues.

“My hands,” I finish. “To crush my enemies.”

“I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.”

Right now, what I want is the throne. Enzo’s power. A perfect revenge. And all the Inquisitors, queens, and Daggers in the world won’t be able to stop me.

Raffaele Laurent Bessette

The first time Raffaele ever set foot inside the royal palace of Estenzia was when he turned eighteen. The palace had hired the Fortunata Court for a Spring Moons masquerade in their gardens. He could still remember the gardens lit by twilight, the fireflies and laughing guests, the masks, the whispers he drew wherever he went, the flood of client requests that followed.

But Raffaele has never been inside the palace itself, until now.

The first three nights in the dungeons, Raffaele sits alone against a cold, damp wall, shivering, and waits for the Inquisition to come. His manacles clink against each other. He can barely feel them against his numb hands.

On his fourth night as prisoner, the queen finally sends for him.

He goes in chains. Shackles clang together as he keeps his wrists in front of him. Inquisitors hold his arms and walk beside him. Raffaele knows the limits of his powers, but the Inquisition doesn’t, and he feels a faint sense of satisfaction at their unease around him. They make their way from the dark, dank corridors of the dungeons to the ornate bath halls. Servants bathe him until he smells of rose and honey, and his hair is once again a sleek, shining river of black and sapphire.

Memories of the court come back to Raffaele, flashes of nights and mornings filled with the scent of rich soaps. As much as he despised being a helpless consort, he still finds himself thinking about the court with nostalgia, missing the golden afternoons and the musk of night lilies.

Finally, the servants dress him in a velvet robe. The Inquisitors lead him on. The halls grow more intricate as they go, until they finally reach a set of double doors blocked by four guards. The doors are painted with an image of Pulchritas emerging from the sea in all her pristine beauty. Raffaele trembles as the guards push them open now, ushering him inside the royal bedchamber. The doors close behind him with the finality of a coffin.

High, intricately carved ceilings. A canopy bed draped with sheer silks. Candlelight illuminates the entire space as Raffaele looks around the walls of the bedroom. Inquisitors stand shoulder to shoulder along each wall, their white cloaks blending into one another’s. All of them have swords at their belts and crossbows hoisted in Raffaele’s direction. As he steps slowly into the chamber, the arrowheads follow his every movement.

His gaze pauses on the Inquisitor standing at the head of them all, closest to the canopied bed. Teren. The Lead Inquisitor’s face tightens as he meets his eyes. Raffaele lowers his lashes, but he still notices Teren’s energy stir with anger, and the way his hand grips the hilt of his sword so strongly that his knuckles turn white.

An uneasy tingling runs down Raffaele’s spine. Will these soldiers stay in here all night? Will Teren stand by and watch his queen?

“You look well.” Giulietta’s voice comes from where she sits at a small writing desk. She rises, then walks over and stops before him. The fabric of her robes glide behind her in smooth trains of silk. She is paler than Enzo, Raffaele thinks.

She looks him up and down. Then she makes a spinning gesture with one finger. “Turn around,” she commands. “Let me see you.”

Raffaele lets a faint blush touch his cheeks, and does as she says. His velvet robe sweeps the floor, the candlelight revealing swirls and slashings of gold. His hair flows over one shoulder, straight and glossy, tied past his shoulder with a thin gold chain. A few of his sapphire strands glitter in the low light. He looks at her through eyes rimmed with black lines and shimmering silver powder.

Raffaele feels the queen’s energy stir. He reaches out to tug gently on her heartstrings. He studies the shift of her emotions. He can sense her distrust and suspicion of him … but underneath it, he also senses something else. A note of something calculating. And beyond that … a small, singular touch of desire.

“Is Her Majesty pleased with me?” he says when he turns back to her again. His eyes stay downcast.

Giulietta smiles. Her eyes roam over him. She touches his chin with one cool hand. “Hard to say. You haven’t done anything yet.”

He holds his breath, drawing on his familiar exercises to block out a client’s unwanted advances, to escape from his body and do his duties as if he were someone else. Numbing his mind. He goes by the motions, returning Giulietta’s smile with his own trained one, leaning into her touch as if he ached for more, tugging gently on her energy until her pupils dilate. He can almost fool himself.