The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(46)

“You’ve grown rather fond of Gemma,” Raffaele tells me the next day, as we walk together in the underground catacombs. Today, his hair is tied high on his head in an elegant dark knot, exposing his slender neck. He wears a bold blue robe trimmed in silver. I can only see the part of him illuminated by lantern light, and the sight unnerves me, making me feel like the darkness is trying to swallow us whole.

“She’s easy to like,” I say after a while. I don’t like admitting it. I shouldn’t be getting close to any of the Daggers at all.

Raffaele turns to give me a brief smile, then looks away again. “The tunnels branch once more here. Do you see?” He pauses to hold up the lantern, and in the gloom, I see the path before us split into two, the walls lined with endless rows of urns. Raffaele chooses the right-hand path. “We now walk underneath the Piazza of Twelve Deities, the city’s largest marketplace. If you listen close, you can hear some of the bustle. It’s a shallow spot.”

We both pause to listen, and sure enough, eventually I make out the faint shouts of people hawking their goods: stockings and sweets, dental powders and bags of honey-roasted nuts. I nod. All my recent time with Raffaele has been spent learning the catacombs. It turns out that the main underground cavern is connected to a wider maze of tunnels. Much wider.

We continue walking, memorizing one branch after the next, a honeycomb of quiet paths that run parallel to the bustling surface world. I watch the frescos on the walls shift with the ages. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, ready to entomb me with the ashes of past generations. Without Raffaele’s help, I know with absolute certainty that I would die down here, lost in the maze.

“This path leads to a hidden door under the temples,” Raffaele says as we pass another branch. “The opposite path will take you to Enzo’s northern villa.” He nods to the dark tunnel up ahead. “There was even a path that used to run under the Inquisition Tower, although it has been sealed for many decades.”

I fall silent at the mention of the tower. Raffaele notices my discomfort. We walk in the darkness for a long time without saying anything.

Finally, we stop before a dead end. Raffaele runs his fingers delicately along the edge of the wall. He finds a small groove in the stone, and then gives it a good push. The wall swings slowly to one side, and light streams in. I squint.

“And this,” Raffaele says, taking my hand, “is my favorite path.”

We step through the open wall and find ourselves standing at the entrance of a tunnel, the ancient stone steps sinking straight into the water of the canals, a quiet, hidden spot that looks out over the main harbor and the beginning of the Sun Sea. Distant gondolas glide by on golden water.

“Oh,” I breathe. For an instant, I forget my troubles. “It’s beautiful.”

Raffaele sits on a step right above the water, and I follow his lead. For a while, we say nothing, listening instead to the water lapping gently against the stone.

“Do you come here often?” I ask him after a while.

He nods. His multicolored eyes focus on a faraway pier, where the hazy silhouette of the palace rises. Light outlines his long lashes. “On quiet days. It helps me think.”

We sit in comfortable silence. Off in the distance, the songs of gondoliers float toward us. I find myself humming along, the melody of my mother’s lullaby coming instinctively to my lips.

Raffaele watches me with his small smile, his eyes bright with interest. “You sing that song often,” he says after a moment. “‘The River Maiden’s Lullaby.’ I know it. It’s a lovely rhyme.”

I nod. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was very little.”

“I like it when you sing. It calms your energy.”

I pause, embarrassed. He must be able to sense my heightened sense of unease for the past few days, as my next appointment with Teren draws near. “I’m not very good. I don’t have her voice.” I almost tell him about my sister, how Violetta’s voice sounds closer to my mother’s—but then I remember where my sister is right now. I swallow the words.

Raffaele doesn’t comment on my energy this time. Maybe he thinks the thought of my mother saddens me. “Can you sing it for me?” I ask him, to distract myself. “I’ve never heard you before.”

He tilts his head at me in the way that makes me blush. My alignment to passion stirs. His eyes go back to the water. He hums a little, then sings the first few verses of the lullaby. My lips part at the sound of his voice, the sweetness of the melody, the way the lyrics hang in the air, light and clear and full of longing. When I sing it, the song comes out as individual notes, but when he sings, the notes change to music. I can hear my mother in the words. A memory comes back to me of a warm afternoon and our sun-drenched garden, when my mother danced with me to the lullaby. When she caught me, I turned around to hug her and buried myself in her dress.

Mama, Mama, I called up to her. Will you be very sad when I grow up?

My mother bent down and touched my face. Her cheeks were wet. Yes, my darling, she answered. I will be very sad.

The melody ends, and Raffaele lets the last note disappear in the air. He glances at me. I realize that tears are blurring my vision, and reach up to hurriedly wipe them away. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back, and there is genuine affection in his expression.