The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(19)

The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Raffaele tells me to turn back around, and when I do, I notice the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds me of a broken flute.

“Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Raffaele says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge and curiosity.”

He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons me over to him and tells me to hum in front of it. When I do, a faint tingling runs down my throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it:

I am fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to our home and take a look at both Violetta and me. Violetta stays demure and sweet the whole time, her tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile. I hate it when they look at me too, she always tells me. But you have to try, Adelina. I catch her in front of her mirror, pulling her neckline down so that it shows more of her curves, smiling at the way her hair falls over her shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. The men admire her at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. I follow Violetta’s example; I flirt and smile as hard as I can. I notice the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at me, the way their stares linger on the line of my collarbone, my breasts. I know they want me too. They just don’t want me as a wife. One of them jokes about cornering me the next time I walk alone in our garden. I laugh with him. I imagine mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; I picture myself leaning over him, looking on patiently, with my chin resting in my hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as I count out the minutes. Violetta doesn’t think such things. She sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. She is our mother. I am our father.

Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again I find myself staring at Raffaele. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.”

Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” I ask.

“Hold them.” He takes one of my hands in his. I blush at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past my broken finger, I wince and flinch away. He meets my gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why I reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” I do, and he carefully places the stones in my hand. My fingers close around them.

A violent shock ripples through me. A wave of bitter fury. Raffaele jumps backward—I gasp, then collapse to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of my mind now spring free of their cages and fill my thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything I’ve already seen and everything I’ve fought to suppress. My father breaking my finger, shouting at me, striking me, ignoring me. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisition’s dungeons. Teren’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at me, throwing stones at my face. The iron stake.

I squeeze my eye shut and press my hands tightly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull me under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Raffaele’s lantern shatters.

Stop. Stop. STOP. I will destroy everything in order to make it stop. I will destroy all of you. I grit my teeth as my fury swirls around me, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, I hear my father’s harsh whisper.

I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?

My fury heightens. Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.

Then the shrieking fades. My father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. I stay on the ground, my entire body shaking with the absence of my unexpected anger, my face wet with tears. Raffaele keeps his distance. We stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help me to my feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. I sit gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. My muscles feel weak, and I can barely keep my head up. I have a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away my exhaustion.

After a while, Raffaele clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber, for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

My father was the one who nurtured it. I shiver, remembering the horrible illusions that have answered my call. In the corner of the room, my father’s ghost lurks, partially hidden behind the ivy wall. He’s not really there, he’s an illusion, he’s dead. But there’s no mistaking it—I can see his silhouette waiting for me, his presence cold and haunting.

I look away from him, lest Raffaele think that I’m losing my mind. “What . . . ,” I begin, then clear my throat. “What does it mean?”

Raffaele just gives me a sympathetic nod. He seems reluctant to discuss it any further, and I find myself eager to move on as well.