This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(10)
“You’d better not cry. Goddesses can’t go around weeping in public.”
“I’m not a goddess. And I’m not crying.”
“Good. Now, scurry back to your palace and order a few strapping young guards to fan you while you eat bonbons or whatever it is you do all day.”
Alessa snorted. “Oh, yes, it’s all luxury, all the time. If you’re volunteering to take my place, go right ahead.”
Adrick laughed drily. “Would if I could. Maybe Dea’s aim was off on choosing day, eh?”
“Now, there’s a thought. Bring a batch of Mama’s macarons the morning after the gala, and maybe I’ll tell you who I’m going to choose. For half your winnings.”
“Half?” Adrick’s grin returned. “Not a chance. I brought you two dozen last week. What mere mortal could finish that many so fast?” He slid into a sardonic drawl. “Ah right, but you are no mere mortal, are you.”
“You’re terrible.”
“And you love me. Hope Dea picked the right twin.”
She snorted. “How can you doubt, when it’s going so well?”
“Hey!” A masculine voice called out. “You, get away from there.”
“Until next time, lil sister…” Adrick trailed off as he fled. “Try not to kill anyone before then.”
Five
Chi sta alle scolte, sente le sue colpe.
Eavesdroppers hear no good about themselves.
The following evening, Alessa unwrapped layers of tissue-thin paper to reveal the most beautiful gown she’d ever seen.
The tiny buttons down the back were meant to be fastened by someone else, but she made do, turning the gown backward halfway up to fasten the buttons, then rotating it and squeezing her arms through the neckline.
Her breath caught as she looked in the mirror, and only partly from the constriction around her ribs.
She glittered like a sea of diamonds. The structured bodice was cream-colored silk studded with gems, and it swooped into a low neckline that exposed her shoulders and dipped in the middle. Below, layered cape-skirts flashed silver and gold silk with her every movement. She hadn’t shown this much skin in public since—well, ever.
When she’d first entered the Cittadella, she’d expected parties every day and a wardrobe full of gowns like this. Then she’d come to learn her days would be spent studying, training with weaponry, and analyzing battle strategies, and she realized most of her clothing would serve one important function—to cover every possible bit of her lethal skin.
This dress, though. This was a dress fit for a fairy-tale princess. It hadn’t been made for a Finestra at all, but commandeered from the city’s most illustrious seamstress, and somewhere in the city, a very wealthy woman must be justifiably furious.
With a sad sigh, Alessa found her longest silk gloves to cover her arms up to the cap sleeves, and tights that looked suitable beneath the overlapping panels of the cape skirt. She couldn’t decide whether a long chain of pearls or a heavy diamond necklace went better with blue topaz earrings. Mama used to say the trick to looking tasteful was removing one piece of jewelry before going out, but Renata’s goal for Alessa’s look was obnoxiously garish, so, with a shrug, she put them both on.
Tipping her head to one side, Alessa studied her cosmetics. Did she want to look intimidating? Nonthreatening? Pretty? It wasn’t easy to find a look that said, Welcome, suitors. Please perform for the right to marry me, and I will try not to kill you.
She settled on a thin stroke of eyeliner, pink lips, and bronze eye shadow. Sparkly, but approachable.
It took an ungodly number of jeweled pins to corral her curls, but she was proud of the final results, which hopefully looked more “deliberately tousled” than messy. Another fistful of pins, and a fall of curls hid her injured ear. It would always have a funny shape at the top, but with the blood washed away, it wasn’t too gruesome. If there was an award for evading a public assassination unscathed, she’d get an honorable mention at least.
The delicate heels she unearthed from a pile of shoes in the back of her closet threatened twisted ankles and pinched toes, but she’d suffer in style. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d be dancing.
Someday after Divorando, when she’d wrestled her power into submission or Dea had passed it on to the next poor Finestra, she would throw a bigger, better party, with a full orchestra, diamond glasses, a prosecco fountain. She’d stay up until dawn, laughing with her Fonte and dancing all night in shoes that were stylish and comfortable. It was a fantasy; she might as well dream big.
She was radiant with an hour to spare, more than enough time for Tomo and Renata’s scheduled pep talk before she wooed her next Fonte. She descended slowly, heels wobbling, dress trying to suffocate her, clutching the railing so her grand entrance didn’t culminate in a tumble of silk and sequins.
The front gates were open, and a stream of deliveries, soldiers, and staff flowed in and out, carrying chairs and stacks of linens down to the piazza. Two grungy-looking men rolled a runaway keg back into place, flicking a rude gesture at the soldiers who did nothing to help. As Alessa neared the bottom, people turned to stare, appreciation joining the fear in their awestruck gazes. Her cheeks warmed. Apparently the Angel of Death looked more angelic than deadly, for once.