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One
Attraverso la Finestra Divina, la luce riduce i demoni in cenere.
Through the Divine Window, light burns demons to ashes.
Three weddings.
Three funerals.
A better person would have been devastated, but Alessa bowed her head to hide dry eyes as she knelt before the jewel-encrusted coffin on the altar. The temple beneath the Cittadella smelled of mildew and death, the air thick with dust motes drifting like the ghosts of fireflies.
Shewouldcry. Later. She always did. Being widowed at eighteen was tragic, after all, and none of her partners had deserved to die. Still, it was difficult to muster tears for yet a third time.
Hugo, her third Fonte and the unfortunate body before her, had insisted it was only nerves when his hand trembled in hers. She should have known better. Shehadknown better. But the gods had chosen her, and she’d chosen him. So, even knowing her touch might be his last, she’d reached for him a second time.
Alessa Paladino, divine weapon of the gods.
Her latest wedding dress was packed away, traded for a mourning gown and knee-high boots, with a black mantilla over her hair. And gloves, of course. Always gloves. Still, the dank chill reached for her bones. Even on a sunbaked island, the sun couldn’t warm what it never touched.
Cupping her hands as though in prayer, Alessa brewed a minuscule wind funnel between her palms. The faint echo of Hugo’s gift only lasted a moment, but she offered it back to him anyway. The empty space it left behind felt like penance.
Her knees ached, but she didn’t stand until the last stragglers found their seats. It wasn’t easy. Every minute spent mourning was one she didn’t get to spend choosing her next Fonte, and she didn’t have time to spare. Or Fontes, for that matter.
On one side of the aisle, the twelve members of the Consiglio watched her with inscrutable eyes. Always watching. Always waiting. First, for her to be old enough to choose a partner. And then, for her to choose another. And another after that. Soon, they’d summon her next victim.
Partner.Her nextpartner.
She had to get it right this time. The Consiglio would have her next choice dragged to the Cittadella at sword-point if needed, but she wanted someonewilling.
On her way to her seat, Alessa paused to curtsy before Renata Ortiz, the previous Finestra, whose power had winked out the day Alessa’s blossomed five years ago. Renata nodded, cool and aloof, while her Fonte, Tomohiro Miyamoto, offered a sympathetic smile. They were a good pairing. A great pairing. Exactly what Finestra and Fonte should be.
A familiar pull of envy threatened to drag Alessa under as they laced their hands together.
She’d give anything for a hand to hold. Or a hug.
She wouldkillfor a hug.
Literally.
Alessa took her seat, pressing a fist to her mouth before a sharp inhalation became a giggle, or worse, a sob. Stiff, black fabric pulled across her chest as she steadied her breathing. If she’d known how often she’d need one, she would have asked for a new mourning gown after the first wear.
Adrick slid in beside her, tugging his lapels and doing his best to look forlorn. “No weeping for good old Hugo, little sister?” he murmured, barely moving his lips. “Lucky for me, there was an open seat beside you.”
“There’salwaysan open seat beside me.” Alessa squeezed her gloved hands together in a vain attempt to warm her fingers.
Renata shot Alessa a look of warning from across the aisle.
It wasn’therfault Adrick didn’t respect rules. He might even be willing to hug her, but she’d never ask. A Finestra wasn’t supposed to touch anyone but their chosen Fonte until after Divorando. And it was too dangerous to chance. The thought of her twin brother laid out on the altar turned her stomach.
He should’ve sat somewhere else. The Finestra was expected to sever all ties from her previous life. Above and apart. Always. She wasn’t even supposed tothinkof him as her twin anymore, and she definitely wasn’t supposed to speak to him.
“Picked the next one yet?” Adrick signed as the choir began rustling in place. Sort of. Their Nonno was Deaf, so they were fluent in Sign language, but the “whispered” half-signs he’dshaped in his lap were a bastardization of language only she could interpret. Papa would be mortified. But Papa wasn’t there. And he wasn’t her papa anymore.
“Still deciding,” she signed back.
“Better hurry,” he said, switching to a hoarse whisper. “A dozen fled Saverio in the past month.”
Dread pooled in her stomach. She’d lost track of how many eligible Fontes remained on the island, but she couldn’t afford to scare off more. She resisted the urge to turn and see who was left.
