With a sad sigh, Alessa found her longest silk gloves to cover her arms up to the cap sleeves, and tights that looked suitable beneath the overlapping panels of the cape skirt. She couldn’t decide whether a long chain of pearls or a heavy diamond necklace went better with blue topaz earrings. Mama used to say the trick to looking tasteful was removing one piece of jewelry before going out, but Renata’s goal for Alessa’s look was obnoxiously garish, so, with a shrug, she put them both on.
Tipping her head to one side, Alessa studied her cosmetics. Did she want to look intimidating? Nonthreatening? Pretty? It wasn’t easy to find a look that said, Welcome, suitors. Please perform for the right to marry me, and I will try not to kill you.
She settled on a thin stroke of eyeliner, pink lips, and bronze eye shadow. Sparkly, but approachable.
It took an ungodly number of jeweled pins to corral her curls, but she was proud of the final results, which hopefully looked more “deliberately tousled” than messy. Another fistful of pins, and a fall of curls hid her injured ear. It would always have a funny shape at the top, but with the blood washed away, it wasn’t too gruesome. If there was an award for evading a public assassination unscathed, she’d get an honorable mention at least.
The delicate heels she unearthed from a pile of shoes in the back of her closet threatened twisted ankles and pinched toes, but she’d suffer in style. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d be dancing.
Someday after Divorando, when she’d wrestled her power into submission or Dea had passed it on to the next poor Finestra, she would throw a bigger, better party, with a full orchestra, diamond glasses, a prosecco fountain. She’d stay up until dawn, laughing with her Fonte and dancing all night in shoes that were stylish and comfortable. It was a fantasy; she might as well dream big.
She was radiant with an hour to spare, more than enough time for Tomo and Renata’s scheduled pep talk before she wooed her next Fonte. She descended slowly, heels wobbling, dress trying to suffocate her, clutching the railing so her grand entrance didn’t culminate in a tumble of silk and sequins.
The front gates were open, and a stream of deliveries, soldiers, and staff flowed in and out, carrying chairs and stacks of linens down to the piazza. Two grungy-looking men rolled a runaway keg back into place, flicking a rude gesture at the soldiers who did nothing to help. As Alessa neared the bottom, people turned to stare, appreciation joining the fear in their awestruck gazes. Her cheeks warmed. Apparently the Angel of Death looked more angelic than deadly, for once.
Two transfixed young servers collided, dropping their trays in a clatter of broken china, and the Captain’s furious voice rose above the ruckus. “What in Dea’s name—”
“It was my fault, Captain Papatonis,” Alessa called out. “All these jewels must have blinded them.”
Captain Papatonis scowled, but he couldn’t scold her. Or dispute that she was very sparkly.
Alessa left the chaotic noise of the atrium for the quiet labyrinth of darkened corridors, wishing it wasn’t gauche to kick off her shoes for the walk.
As she made her way, cursing silently at every twinge that promised blisters, she caught a flicker of movement at the end of a long corridor leading to the barracks.
A man. And he wasn’t in uniform.
“Excuse me,” Alessa called out. “Guests aren’t permitted down there.”
He stepped into the light, shadow taking the form of dark curls, a sharp jawline, heavy-lidded eyes, and a familiar challenging expression.
“You,” she said, accusingly. “You aren’t a guest.” Young men who fought with cultists by the docks weren’t the sort of people who got invited to a glittering gala at the Cittadella.
“Nope.” His scorn-filled gaze raked down her, from the diamond-studded pins in her hair to her gold-slippered toes. “Barrel sent me to deliver spirits.”
She fired back a haughty glare. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing back here.”
He sauntered closer as though he had all the time in the world. “Got lost.”
A pack of soldiers erupted from the barracks at the end of the hall in a riot of boisterous laughter and shoulder-punching, helmets tucked under their arms. Their laughter fizzled at the sight of Alessa and the stranger, but for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she didn’t order them to escort the interloper out.
Swapping looks, the soldiers continued, veering around the stranger like a stream diverted by a boulder.
Alessa pressed herself against the side of the corridor to let them pass.