“No, of course not,” she said in a hurry. “I didn’t mean—”
“They weren’t perfect, but no one deserves that.”
“Of course not. I just can’t fathom why people would do something so terrible for no reason.”
“Oh, I’m sure they had reasons. People always have reasons. People can justify anything if they want to enough.”
“I’m so sorry. How old were you?”
“Old enough.” The anger in his voice was for himself, not her, but it made her flinch.
“How old?”
“Twelve. But I was big for my age. Strong. I could’ve fought, given them a chance to get away. And I didn’t.” His voice was so hollow it seemed to pull the air out of the room. “I hid. I heard it all and I did nothing.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Of course it was.” Dante dragged a hand through his hair.
“You were a child.”
“And they were my family. I should have died with them.”
There was nothing to say. Even if she could find the right words, they wouldn’t reach him, locked away as he was inside himself. And she knew, without a doubt, that if she said the wrong thing, she’d snap the fragile lifeline he’d given her to hold.
How cruel, that sharing someone else’s grief did nothing to alleviate it for them. In physics, there were rules and forces, equal and opposite reactions, a balance. But emotions didn’t obey rules, and though sympathy settled over her like a heavy blanket, it did nothing to help him. No matter how much she was willing to bear, she couldn’t lighten his load. Even her hands, which stole power, strength, and life itself, were powerless to siphon off any of his suffering.
So she didn’t speak, but she didn’t leave. Standing close, she offered what little comfort she could with her presence alone.
Dante stared at the rain-drenched city below, but she knew he wasn’t seeing anything at all.
* * *
There was more wincing than sobbing in the following days, but a week into their training, the Fontes still flinched every time Alessa came near.
Tomo had mostly regained his strength, but he watched from a safe distance as Alessa took turns using everyone’s gift, even Nina’s. The wrongness of shifting matter made Alessa’s stomach churn, though, as if the laws of physics fought such an unnatural force.
At the end of one especially long afternoon, the Fontes and Alessa sat around the formal dining table, wilted like flowers in a drought. Tomo and Renata had joined them for a quiet supper of white fish in a lemon wine sauce—the quality of the Cittadella’s food had definitely improved since the Fontes arrived—and even they didn’t try to make conversation beyond answering Saida’s hesitant questions about their family recipes. Tomo perked up a bit, looking charmed as she explained her project. He knew a surpising amount about baking, too. While he listed a number of dishes for Saida to choose from, Renata smiled weakly and promised to think of something later, and everyone else seemed relieved that they didn’t have to find the energy to speak for a while.
As Tomo and Saida debated the use of rice flour versus gelatin in a dessert Alessa wasn’t familiar with, Kamaria stared blankly at the nearest candelabra. Her powers made the flames grow and shrink in a lazy rhythm as though the fire itself was breathing, swirling smoke toward Kaleb. She either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his pointed sighs.
Eventully the conversation lapsed into silence.
“I think it may be time for a break,” Tomo said, tapping his new walking stick against his chair.
Alessa nearly cried. A break? They were supposed to be finished for the day.
“Is there something in particular you still want them to work on?” Renata asked. “Everyone seems a bit tired.”
“I ordered sweets,” Saida said tentatively. “Maybe a little sugar would help us power through.”
“Very thoughtful of you, dear,” Renata said. “But Tomo, I think they’ve had enough for one day.”
“My apologies,” Tomo said. “I was unclear. I didn’t mean today, but rather, a full day of rest tomorrow.”
Renata stiffened. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Rest is as essential for training as sleep is for learning. A day of rest, prayer, and time with family will rejuvenate us all, and I can think of no better way to give warriors purpose than remembering what we’re fighting for. Besides, Mastro Pasquale is coming in the morning, so the Finestra will be occupied sitting for her formal portrait.”