Page 3 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Mother Superior doesn’t bat an eye. “In that case, the marriage will be quietly dissolved in a few years’ time, unless your union proves advantageous to the Order. A wealthy patron has his uses. We can certainly put his funds to better use than those frivolous performances.”

I hardly hear a thing she says after years.

One of the most foundational rules of the Order forbids lustful intimacy for sake of keeping our focus honed—and they want me to crawl into bed and offer myself up, ripe for the taking?

Swallowing bile, I steady myself. Never once have I heard of an assignment of this nature. Yes, Sisters are sent off in disguise for weeks, even months, at a time, but never with roles so intimate. I’ve heard stories from my fellow sisters posing as servants, brothel owners, couriers… But to masquerade as someone’s wife? Cleaving a head from shoulders sounds far more appealing. Anything but this.

My expression must break because Catarina clears her throat smartly. “No fear, Ariya. If you are to play your role successfully, you must be conscious of the story your face tells at every moment.”

Nodding hollowly, I attempt to school my expression back into an obedient, tempered mask. My smile can only hold for mere seconds, and to my surprise, Mother Superior reaches for my hand and softens.

“You have performed excellently in training. You have assisted in many a hunt, earned the blood of our enemy on your blade. What are your worries, child?”

Wetting my lips, I squeeze her hand and look at her beseechingly. “If he’s not the leech we suspect… I— Am I expected to perform…wifely duties?” Color rushes to my face. This is not a conversation I should ever have to navigate with Mother Superior, of all people. “Surely this lord has physical desires. I am not well-versed.” That’s putting it lightly. And then, my traitorous mouth adds, “Perhaps one of the other girls would be more suited for this role.”

I may as well have driven a blade into my gut and twisted the handle. Who am I to turn down an assignment—my first solo one, at that? After all these years of waiting, I have suddenly become a coward in the face of an unconventional task.

“You were handpicked for this role, Ariya,” Mother says firmly. “I know in my heart that you are more than capable. As for your wifely duties… Surely, you understand that the mission of the Corvus Order rises above your fears. I assure you, such petty physical distractions will wane in time.” She pats my hand kindly, though this does nothing to ease my mounting anxiety. “I know you will make us proud, dear girl.”

For the first time in my twelve years here, I’m not sure I will.

I bow my head. “I am yours to wield.”

Catarina rises, extending a hand to me. “Come. We depart in two days, and you have much to prepare.”

two

What must such a reclusive man look like? Although this trifling matter should be the least of my worries, our journey to Florence gives me far too much time to agonize over it.

The Order spares no expense to ensure subterfuge isn’t compromised by our traditional vows of humility and simplicity. Sister Catarina and I are nestled within a lavish horse-drawn carriage—the only one the Order owns, utilized solely for signaling wealth on missions such as this. It’s a luxury I have never experienced—the polished wood enclosure painted with gold and red vinework, and the interior fitted with cushioned seats that allow passengers to face each other during the journey. Through the curved windows, I catch Florentine laborers and children alike stopping to stare as the carriage rolls through. I can’t blame them in the slightest, though I feel like a fraud with every envious glance cast our way.

The novelty of such rare finery would be far more thrilling if not for the scarlet gown I’ve been wrapped in. The stiff fabric is entirely unlike the comfortable, simple dresses of the abbey. How am I to decapitate my target if I can’t even lift my arms over my head?

“You’re fidgeting,” Catarina says as I attempt to wrestle my gown’s low neckline higher. “You must settle into the fashion. Remember, you are to behave as though you have worn such things all your life.”

“I know, it’s just—” I manage to loosen one of the ties at my lower back, relieving some of the pressure on my ribs. I breathe easier. “I’ll never understand how Florentine women get anything done, wearing these.”

I take comfort in the few weapons I was able to conceal within the fabric. However, I would feel far more comforted with my blades strapped to my back within easy reach.

I’m sure that’s hardly the fashion, I think wryly.

Sparkling light catches my eye, prompting me to sit forward and peek through the window. We’re crossing a bridge in the center of the city, and the Arno River is glittering with the fiery hues of sunset. Reflections of the magnificent bridges and bell towers ripple in the water twenty feet below us, and I lift my gaze to take it all in properly.

The Piazza del Duomo sits like a sentinel over the rest of the city, its magnificent dome glowing amber in the dying daylight. I’ve always wanted to go inside and see the opulent interior for myself, but the Order’s seldom visits to Florence were merely for supplies or stakeouts on a target. There’s no time to dawdle and stare at paintings when lives are at stake.

Perhaps I can convince this art-loving recluse to take me. Assuming he doesn’t turn out to be an unholy creature of the night, of course.

As the carriage winds onto a cobblestone road that curves upward, I crane my neck to not lose sight of the cathedral as the bustle of the city center becomes distant. The grandeur is enough to make my head spin—the beauty and decay of it mingling into one impossible entity.

And the people! After a long stint at the abbey, the garish fashion never ceases to send a shock to my system. Merchants and nobles alike are clothed in bold colors, silks rustling. I catch myself staring at the men in particular—not with any want per se, but simply because it’s so rare to see them. Corvus is composed solely of the fairer sex, and the only men on the property are transient visitors permitted only for a short time. More than a distraction, men tend to be a downright liability in my opinion.

I’ve overheard enough muttered conversations from visitors to know that many people think us insane—all the rules, the secrecy. But I find a certain beauty in the discipline. Some people toil their entire lives in obscurity and insignificance. I have been crafted as a holy weapon to protect the innocent and eliminate vampiric darkness in the world. There’s never any doubt that leads me to squander my life away. This is my purpose.

The thought has me sitting a little straighter as a villa rises against the horizon—the palazzo of D’Agonisto. It’s beautifully built, crowned with terracotta roofs and windows that wink between cypress trees. The air whipping my face through the open windows takes a sweeter scent, vineyards and olive groves overpowering the city’s smoke.

“Sit straight, Ariya,” Catarina chides, apparently having indulged me long enough. “You’re the daughter of a contessa tonight. You practiced?”

“Of course,” I say—and it’s true. I did little else for the last two days but prepare for grueling questioning tonight. “I know the cover forward and back.”