“I am serving the Church as I was asked by the High Ecclesia,” I breathe, the words barely audible. “Regardless, Imperator, you are not my husband. I am not your ward.”
He lunges for me. I hold my ground only because there is nowhere to go—just the cold marble plinth of Saint Adrian. His enormous hands land on my shoulders, caging me in. Even through my shawl and dress, I feel the blazing heat of him, all rage and desire.
“I am not,” he spits, leaning close to me. A dangerous smile moves across his expression. “You will live to regret that choice, foundling. How desperately I wanted you, the beautiful Spared girl the common people of the Host spin so many tales about. Your devoutness, your beauty, your brush with divinity . . . you would’ve done wonders for my reputation. You might have even learned to love me, learned to temper my anger with your soft mouth, your lush body. And yet you made an utter mockery of me in front of the entire congregation.”
The safety of the Spine, I remind myself, is only a few steps away. Fiercely, I block thoughts of that Twelve Days’ Feast from entering my mind—the abandoned corridor, his hands pulling at my corset, drunken words spilling from his mouth, the heat of his damp lips pressed against my neck as I struggled. A group of Host Knights, late for the feast, saved me. But they also condemned me, for Sergio’s actions are strictly prohibited outside of matrimony. Rumors had already been flying that the Noble Houses were displeased with a commoner being named Imperator. When they tried to wield the situation against them, he—of course—found a way to blame the woman.
Why, I wonder, that sadness blooming beneath my breastbone, is thisalwaysthe way of things?
“Renault Amadeus is my betrothed,” I reply, almost choking on the images that my mind conjures. I curl my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm. “Find someone else. I am not yours.”
He pulls back with a harsh bark of laughter, as if we’ve shared a joke. “Oh, you beautiful little fool,” Sergio murmurs with an unexpected trace of sincerity, “you have no idea what the Noble Houses are like behind closed doors. Nor did I, I admit, before becoming Imperator. Whatever you imagined being my bride might be like, marriage to a son of Amadeus will be so much worse.”
Chapter 6
For a moment, I leave my body entirely, shutting myself into a tiny room I’ve hidden away beneath my breastbone. From there, from that great distance, I marvel at Sergio’s anger, his willingness to slander an Apostle House. I do not understand why such a simple thing—a refusal of his unexpected offer—conjures such emotions in him. Surely there are other women, likely with better social standing and no twisted limbs, who would gladly accept his hand. Whyme?
“Of course,” Sergio snaps, spittle flying from his mouth. “You only think of him as your Apostle savior.”
I do not know what to say. My veins pound, and every instinct in my body tells me to run—and to keep running, perhaps until I hit the cliffs or the ramparts. When I do, perhaps I’ll spread my arms, and perhaps I’ll fly or I’ll fall, but either way, I’d be free.
Desperate, I risk movement, edging out of the grotto, back into the warmth and light and safety of the Spine. Clasping my worn Saintess Lucia medallion, I say a silent prayer for her to intercede. But Sergio doesn’t yield; if anything, he looms closer, a taunting smile on his face, more words on the tip of his tongue.
“Ophelia!” a dearly familiar voice calls.
My heart lifts as I look past Sergio and find Carina coming down the wide corridor, arm-in-arm with her husband, a newly appointed Knight of the Host. I try to subtly shake my head at her—to tell her not to save me, not to wield Augustus’s power against Sergio. The Imperator and a Host Knight are too close in rank, and with Sergio’s seniority, I don’t want him going after Augustus.
I have done enough, I think, to toss troubles at Carina’s feet. But she keeps coming anyway, the heels of her cream leather boots clicking on the marble floors. I marvel at her—elegant, slender, her alabaster skin tinted with rose, her gorgeous tresses of chestnut hair piled high on her head, looking for all the world like an Apostle Lady, even though her father is a merchant. But she’s always been sharper than me, ever since that day we met in the gardens as children, always better at navigating the complex social web of Lumendei.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Carina coos as if Sergio is simply another statue and not the Imperator of the Holy Guard. Augustus—tall, powerfully built with burnished onyx skin and dark curls—places himself firmly between Carina and Sergio. “Did Renault have this dress made for you?”
Silence hangs heavy for a long moment. My heart beats furiously against my ribs. I want to open my mouth and scream, to shout until my throat is raw. Instead, I try to be sly, to be subtle and sharp, like my lovely Carina.
“He did,” I say with a forced laugh, brushing one hand across the flowing skirt. As I do, my shawl slips down, and the pearl chains strung like epaulets across my shoulders shimmer in the light of Saint Adrian’s candles.
Sergio holds his ground, face growing redder by the moment, but his guards have shifted away, lost their intensity, unwilling to tangle with a Host Knight in view of the entire Spine.
“I’m sure he’s very eager to see you in it, no?” Carina asks with a bright smile. She turns and offers Sergio a small curtsy. “Imperator. I believe Augustus wanted to discuss a training exercise with you—something useful for knights and guards alike. Do you have a moment to speak?”
Sergio’s thick jaw grinds. He looks toward me, light eyes consuming me. “We will talk soon, Ophelia.” Then his attention shifts to Augustus, his entire demeanor changing as he addresses another man.
Carina slips her arm out of Augustus’s and steps toward me. “Are you all right?” she asks in a tense whisper, all that soft, comfortable ease leaked out of her.
“Fine,” I say, strained. The blood pounding in my ears has lessened, but now my knees feel unsteady, my skin clammy. With the immediate threat gone, self-hatred for my own weakness curls low in my belly. “Thank you.”
“Well, don’t be late for your titled Apostle fiancé,” Carina teases, louder now, that ease returning to her expression. “Who, by the way, youshouldspeak with about what happened this morning with Saintess Lucia. But I digress. I’ll see you in the garden tomorrow, yes?”
And that’s when I realize that following the High Ecclesian’s orders means lying to my dearest friend. My body rebels at the thought, a knot forming in my stomach. Since we met, both barely in our tenth summer then, we’ve told each other everything. Carina is my heart, and I like to think I am hers. But then, like a cold spray of seawater on bare skin, I admit to myself that I have been lying to Carina for a very, very long time. What’s another falsehood piled on top of my unspoken and unrequited love for her?
“I think I’m taking on more at the Libris Sanctum,” I lie, so simply and easily that, for the millionth time, I understand whymy body was marred by my God. “Renault needs the help. But I hope so. The end of the summer harvest is my favorite.”
“Mine, too.” Carina smiles warmly, though with a tilt of her head, she tells me to make my escape now. I whisper my thanks to her, not daring to glance back at Sergio.
And then I’m on my way, moving as quickly as my body allows. When I reach the end of the Spine and enter the large, magnificent stone courtyard, I gasp in relief, like a drowning man finally reaching the shore. Wearily, I lean back against a low stone wall and try to collect myself. Panic flutters in my throat, a bone-deep sadness curling around my chest with weighted, thorny claws.
I set my jaw, closing my eyes. I detest this particular kind of sorrow that comes over me sometimes. It makes me want to cry until I can’t breathe, to shout as loud as I can, until my voice gives out. Hardly befitting a Host woman, let alone an Amadeus bride. I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms, and force my eyes open.
A bit farther down the curve of the courtyard, just beneath the fluttering cream awnings, a carriage awaits. It’s like something out of the fairy tales that the cooks tell late at night when the guards are focused on the ramparts and there are no disapproving ears. I shouldn’t listen, I know, but the stories don’t seem dangerous—and right now, I feel as though I’ve stepped right into one of them.
