A shiver ran through her as she imagined facing a storm like this while at sea, at the mercy of the wind and waves. It reminded her too much of Cornelius’s death. She had spent many nights with her mind conjuring the chaos and terror of his final moments.
A crack of thunder made her jump, and lightning flashed. Lightning always made her think of the gods.
A horrible thought struck her.The curse.
Was it possible—could this storm be Neptune’s handiwork?
She put a hand against one of the columns in the atrium and swallowed hard as the awful possibility loomed in her mind. What if she had made a terrible mistake? This storm could capsize any ship, could send dozens of men to their deaths.
When she wrote the curse, she’d envisioned something like a cargo of rancid olive oil or a load of spices that were too poor quality to be sold. Not death or injury. But to a god, a few dozen human lives lost must seem as inconsequential as swatting a fly.
She took a deep breath and tried to be rational. Perhaps the storm was just a storm. Maybe she was presumptuous to think Neptune would conjure something so powerful solely in response to her curse.
But as morning turned to midday, the storm didn’t relent. Marcus stayed home from school—to his delight—as frequent flashes of lightning lit the sky. The atrium pool eventually overflowed, forming puddles on the floor.
Lucretia’s stomach was in knots all day. Each crack of thunder or howl of wind made a fresh stab of guilt spear her as she imagined what it would be like to be at sea in a tempest like this. She attempted a few prayers at the household shrine for the safety of any sailors caught in the storm, but she worried the gods would find her requests disingenuous after the curse.
Toward twilight, the winds eased, and the rain softened from a downpour to a steady drizzle. Lucretia went to bed, but sleep eluded her. Visions of ships sinking and men sucked beneath the waves haunted her.
At some point in the middle of the night, the rain finally ceased. The silence felt ominous after a day of constant noise.
Lucretia rose, exhausted, in early morning. In the atrium, water pooled on the floor, and she had to hold her dress up to her calves to avoid soaking it. She gazed up at the dawn sky through the opening in the roof, finding it blue-gray and cloudless.
She hauled open the heavy front door to see what things were like outside. Bits of debris littered the street, and puddles of water had formed in many spots. The streets would be a muddy mess soon as people began to go about their business.
Guilt still plagued her, its grip tight and unrelenting around her chest, and she had no appetite for breakfast.
What’s done is done. Move past it. For all you know, no one was harmed last night.
Her internal exhortations were fruitless. There was only one way to relieve her self-condemnation: she had to go to Felix and find out if any of his ships were even expected to be in the vicinity yesterday. She could breathe a sigh of relief if the answer was no. Then, she would make a large sacrifice to Neptune and ask humbly for her curse to be disregarded.
She covered her hair with a long palla of pale yellow and ventured into the muddy streets. She had never been to Felix’s house, but she knew where he lived. The hour was early enough that she expected to find Felix still at home, rather than at his office, and this matter was too important to wait until later.
She picked her way along the driest bits of street. Patrician women used litters to ferry them around without having to dirty their feet, which would have come in very useful on a day like today, but such indulgences were above Lucretia’s more moderate station.
When she reached Felix’s house, a servant showed her into the atrium. She waited, shifting from foot to foot. She didn’t relish being here, but for the moment, Felix was the only person who could ease her anxiety.
Lucretia glanced around as she waited, evaluating Felix’s house. She’d expected to see more outward manifestation of his wealth: things like piles of shining coins spilling out from behind each door, rattling underfoot wherever he walked, or a larger-than-life statue of himself cast in solid gold.
Instead, the house was surprisingly understated in its elegance. A mosaic spread beneath her feet, the geometric patterns intricate and perfectly symmetrical. That alone would have cost a fortune to install. Slender columns surrounded the atrium, their carved capitals painted in blue, yellow, and red. A glimmer of gold paint shone at their edges, but it was just the barest touch, enough to draw the eye without overwhelming. Between the columns stood slender bronze candelabras, the oil lamps unlit at this hour. Stone planters held flower bushes around the perimeter of the atrium, lending the space an airy, natural feel.
Lucretia wondered what the rest of the house was like. Did all the rooms feature this restrained sophistication?
She debated sneaking a look at a few more rooms, but Felix appeared before she could be so brazen. A white bandage showed beneath the short sleeve of his tunic, and the sight of it sent another pang of guilt through her. In the past day, she had become the sort of woman who slashed someone with a knife, cast a curse on that same individual, and now might have condemned innocent men to a watery grave.
Felix paused several paces away from her and eyed her with trepidation. “Are you armed?”
She recognized that he was attempting to make a joke, but she was not in the mood for humor. “Are you expecting any ships in the near term?”
He frowned, a line appearing between his dark brows. “I was…but I received word this morning of a wreck at the coast a fewmiles south, after yesterday’s storm. I have reason to believe it’s one of mine, based on the timing and location.”
At the wordwreck, the ground lurched beneath Lucretia’s feet. Spots appeared before her eyes. She flung an arm out, blindly seeking one of the columns that lined the atrium. Instead, her hand encountered warm, firm flesh. Felix’s shoulder. He had crossed the distance between them and grasped her arm for support.
“Lucretia? Are you well?”
“It’s my fault,” she gasped, all the breath driven from her lungs. “I-I did this.”
His arm circled her waist, holding her up as her knees verged on buckling. Gently, he guided her to a bench against the wall. She collapsed into it. He stood in front of her, staring down at her with mingled concern and confusion. “Do you require a physician?”
