Self-consciously, Alessa checked to be sure her hairstyle was still covering it and took an empty seat. “It’s fine. Really. Barely a scratch.”
“Still. Must have been scary.”
At the other girl’s sympathy, tears pricked Alessa’s eyes. She smiled harder to force them back. “Knives are the least of my problems, right?”
Saida’s tawny complexion went ashen. “But you’ve been working to get that, um, sorted out, right?”
Damn. She’d been referring to the scarabeo, not her Fonte-killing problem.
“Absolutely.” Alessa stood quickly. “I am confident, and I have everything under control.”
Whoops. She hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. It seemed to reassure Saida, though, so for once, her tendency to say the quiet part out loud hadn’t made things noticeably worse.
* * *
It was past midnight when Alessa returned to the relative peace of her rooms. Sleep offered the only escape from the hum of anxious energy twitching through her body, but her bed loomed rather than beckoned. Insomnia never felt more inevitable than when she settled herself in the middle of the massive four-poster monstrosity, acres of cold emptiness on either side.
Alessa flopped onto the couch instead.
She still didn’t know who to choose. The strongest? The person whose gift was most practical? If her chosen Fonte didn’t live long enough to fight, what difference did it make? She needed a Fonte who would live.
Choosing Emer, her first Fonte, had been so easy. His funeral, unbearable.
At first, she’d been so angry when people insisted he was a bit too gentle, but the thought became a lifeline. It was still her fault for choosing him, but maybe not entirely her fault he’d died.
Her naive, selfish heart had wanted the golden boy with a sweet smile, and the gods had not approved. Message heard.
She’d chosen more wisely the next time.
Ilsi, Josef’s older sister, had been so confident, beautiful, and powerful she might have stepped out of the Cittadella’s mosaics. Everyone knew she’d be strong enough to withstand Alessa’s power, including Alessa, who’d been awestruck by the older girl, and for one brief day, Ilsi illuminated the Cittadella with her charismatic presence and sly sense of humor. Alessa hadn’t even decided whether she wanted Ilsi or wanted to be Ilsi before Ilsi was dead, too.
Once, she’d followed her heart. And Emer died.
Then she’d listened to her brain. And Ilsi died.
So she’d thrown the rules out the window and picked someone entirely different.
Poor Hugo.
It had been worth a shot.
She could put all their names in a bucket and ask Dea to guide her hand. Or read another dozen historical texts in search of hints that didn’t exist. Maybe rearrange their names to see if she could spell anything fun with the letters.
If only she could extinguish her thoughts like blowing out a candle. Her family used to affectionately joke about her “busy brain” but it wasn’t amusing when her thoughts refused to quiet themselves so she could rest.
She’d heard of people who struggled to sleep because of tingling in their legs, but the restlessness that plagued her nights went deeper than muscles. It was a nagging need, like her skin had shrunk in the wash and would never fit again.
In daytime, she could stay busy enough to ignore it, but when the night grew quiet and still, the clamoring returned.
Movement was her only remedy, so she spent most evenings pacing. Even when she wasn’t especially anxious—rare, but it happened—she’d walk her room for hours. But she’d already been on her feet all night socializing, if one was generous enough to call hours of stilted small talk “socializing,” so she closed her eyes and guided her thoughts to a sandy beach. Hot sand between her toes, waiting for someone special to row back to shore with fresh-caught fish for dinner. The sun, blindingly bright behind a tiny rowboat, erased the rower’s features, but imaginary Alessa knew exactly who it was, and her heart swelled …
Darkness descended, but before she’d fully sunk beneath, she jerked awake.
She couldn’t breathe.
Her eyes snapped open.
Couldn’t see.
Something—someone—had her pinned, trapped, crushing her windpipe. Thrashing, she fought to free herself. Her fingers scrabbled against leather. Hands, encased in thick gloves, tightening around her neck.
She wasn’t strong enough.
Alessa forced her fingers to reach, touching coarse fabric, a hard chest, thick arms—a sliver of bare skin between his collar and some sort of mask over his head.