The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(2)

So, yes. You could say I am flawed.

Marked. A malfetto.

While my sister emerged from the fever unscathed, I now have only a scar where my left eye used to be. While my sister’s hair remained a glossy black, the strands of my hair and lashes turned a strange, ever-shifting silver, so that in the sunlight they look close to white, like a winter moon, and in the dark they change to a deep gray, shimmering silk spun from metal.

At least I fared better than Mother did. Mother, like every infected adult, died. I remember crying in her empty bedchamber each night, wishing the fever had taken Father instead.

My father and his mysterious guest were still talking downstairs. My curiosity got the best of me and I swung my legs over the side of my bed, crept toward my chamber door on light feet, and opened it a crack. Dim candlelight illuminated the hall outside. Below, my father sat across from a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair at his temples, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck in a short, customary tail, the velvet of his coat shining black and orange in the light. My father’s coat was velvet too, but the material was worn thin. Before the blood fever crippled our country, his clothes would have been as luxurious as his guest’s. But now? It’s hard to keep good trade relations when you have a malfetto daughter tainting your family’s name.

Both men drank wine. Father must be in a negotiating mood tonight, I thought, to have tapped one of our last good casks.

I opened the door a little wider, crept out into the hall, and sat, knees to my chin, along the stairs. My favorite spot. Sometimes I’d pretend I was a queen, and that I stood here on a palace balcony looking down at my groveling subjects. Now I took up my usual crouch and listened closely to the conversation downstairs. As always, I made sure my hair covered my scar. My hand rested awkwardly on the staircase. My father had broken my fourth finger, and it never healed straight. Even now, I could not curl it properly around the railing.

“I don’t mean to insult you, Master Amouteru,” the man said to my father. “You were a merchant of good reputation. But that was a long time ago. I don’t want to be seen doing business with a malfetto family—bad luck, you know. There’s little you can offer me.”

My father kept a smile on his face. The forced smile of a business transaction. “There are still lenders in town who work with me. I can pay you back as soon as the port traffic picks up. Tamouran silks and spices are in high demand this year—”

The man looked unimpressed. “The king’s dumb as a dog,” he replied. “And dogs are no good at running countries. The ports will be slow for years to come, I’m afraid, and with the new tax laws, your debts will only grow. How can you possibly repay me?”

My father leaned back in his chair, sipped his wine, and sighed. “There must be something I can offer you.”

The man studied his glass of wine thoughtfully. The harsh lines of his face made me shiver. “Tell me about Adelina. How many offers have you received?”

My father blushed. As if the wine hadn’t left him red enough already. “Offers for Adelina’s hand have been slow to come.”

The man smiled. “None for your little abomination, then.”

My father’s lips tightened. “Not as many as I’d like,” he admitted.

“What do the others say about her?”

“The other suitors?” My father rubbed a hand across his face. Admitting all my flaws embarrassed him. “They say the same thing. It always comes back to her . . . markings. What can I tell you, sir? No one wants a malfetto bearing his children.”

The man listened, making sympathetic sounds.

“Haven’t you heard the latest news from Estenzia? Two noblemen walking home from the opera were found burned to a crisp.” My father had quickly changed tack, hoping now that the stranger would take pity on him. “Scorch marks on the wall, their bodies melted from the inside out. Everyone is frightened of malfettos, sir. Even you are reluctant to do business with me. Please. I’m helpless.”

I knew what my father spoke of. He was referring to very specific malfettos—a rare handful of children who came out of the blood fever with scars far darker than mine, frightening abilities that don’t belong in this world. Everyone talked about these malfettos in hushed whispers; most feared them and called them demons. But I secretly held them in awe. People said they could conjure fire out of thin air. Could call the wind. Could control beasts. Could disappear. Could kill in the blink of an eye.

If you searched the black market, you’d find flat wooden engravings for sale, elaborately carved with their names, forbidden collectibles that supposedly meant they would protect you—or, at the least, that they would not hurt you. No matter the opinion, everyone knew their names. The Reaper. Magiano. The Windwalker. The Alchemist.

The Young Elites.

The man shook his head. “I’ve heard that even the suitors who refuse Adelina still gape at her, sick with desire.” He paused. “True, her markings are . . . unfortunate. But a beautiful girl is a beautiful girl.” Something strange glinted in his eyes. My stomach twisted at the sight, and I tucked my chin tighter against my knees, as if for protection.

My father looked confused. He sat up taller in his chair and pointed his wineglass at the man. “Are you making me an offer for Adelina’s hand?”

The man reached into his coat to produce a small brown pouch, then tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy clink. As a merchant’s daughter, one becomes well acquainted with money—and I could tell from the sound and from the size of the coins that the purse was filled to the brim with gold talents. I stifled a gasp.