This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(11)

Two transfixed young servers collided, dropping their trays in a clatter of broken china, and the Captain’s furious voice rose above the ruckus. “What in Dea’s name—”

“It was my fault, Captain Papatonis,” Alessa called out. “All these jewels must have blinded them.”

Captain Papatonis scowled, but he couldn’t scold her. Or dispute that she was very sparkly.

Alessa left the chaotic noise of the atrium for the quiet labyrinth of darkened corridors, wishing it wasn’t gauche to kick off her shoes for the walk.

As she made her way, cursing silently at every twinge that promised blisters, she caught a flicker of movement at the end of a long corridor leading to the barracks.

A man. And he wasn’t in uniform.

“Excuse me,” Alessa called out. “Guests aren’t permitted down there.”

He stepped into the light, shadow taking the form of dark curls, a sharp jawline, heavy-lidded eyes, and a familiar challenging expression.

“You,” she said, accusingly. “You aren’t a guest.” Young men who fought with cultists by the docks weren’t the sort of people who got invited to a glittering gala at the Cittadella.

“Nope.” His scorn-filled gaze raked down her, from the diamond-studded pins in her hair to her gold-slippered toes. “Barrel sent me to deliver spirits.”

She fired back a haughty glare. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing back here.”

He sauntered closer as though he had all the time in the world. “Got lost.”

A pack of soldiers erupted from the barracks at the end of the hall in a riot of boisterous laughter and shoulder-punching, helmets tucked under their arms. Their laughter fizzled at the sight of Alessa and the stranger, but for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she didn’t order them to escort the interloper out.

Swapping looks, the soldiers continued, veering around the stranger like a stream diverted by a boulder.

Alessa pressed herself against the side of the corridor to let them pass.

Brow furrowing, the stranger studied her.

“What?” she demanded.

“You trying to burrow into the wall?”

Her cheeks burned. Fine, so she wasn’t brave, she wasn’t strong, and she wasn’t up to being a savior, but he didn’t have to look at her like he knew. “I was getting out of the way.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“It’s polite. A concept you’re clearly not familiar with. They’ve seen the damage I can do.” Bitterness singed the edges of her words. “I can’t blame anyone for keeping their distance.”

He gave her a level stare. “Then let them walk around you.”

She hadn’t even told him which way to go, but the aggravating stranger strode away, leaving Alessa alone in the hallway. She stood there, silent, in the half-light.

Let them walk around you.

As though it were that simple.



* * *



“Ah, Finestra.” Tomo stood, adjusting the hem of his emerald jacket as Alessa entered the military records room. “Our blessed vessel.”

Alessa forced a strained smile. The damned vessel again. Once, she’d been a person. Now she was a tunnel. A basin. A lens. Or whichever metaphor Tomo came up with to help her understand her role. But understanding wasn’t the problem. She simply had no idea how to do it.

He and Renata had years to practice together before their battle, while she’d give her right hand for a few months. Well, maybe not a hand. She’d need both to hold on to her Fonte and a weapon at the same time. Maybe a foot. Or an ear. She’d already nearly lost one that afternoon, and with the right hairstyle, no one would even know.

Renata looked up from the table scattered with books. “We’ve told her a thousand times, dear. I doubt another metaphor will make the difference.”

Tomo deflated. “The bridge to understanding is constructed of words.”

“Thank you for trying, Tomo,” Alessa said, easing into a chair. “You do have a beautiful way with words.”

Tomo rapped his pen on the table. “The only visual aid I can think of is a prism, and it fractures light, while a Finestra does the opposite, merging the colors…” He wandered off, muttering about wavelengths.

The book in front of Alessa might have held history’s greatest secrets, but it was written in the old language, so she’d never know. It was too heavy for her to slam shut, and her dramatic gesture became a wrestling match as the pages flipped back in the opposite direction.

Renata closed the ancient tome in front of her, sending up a puff of dust. “Pages of flowery prose, but no actual advice. Bunch of would-be poets. I swear, if I could meet the Finestre of old, I’d slap some sense into them.”

“Ooh, let me do it.” Alessa ventured a smile. “It would hurt more.”

Renata strode across the room, midnight blue skirts parting to reveal green tights. After Ilsi’s death, people had begun eying Alessa’s delicate lace gloves and sandaled feet like they were venomous snakes, so she’d covered up. Renata had added tights beneath her own skirts soon after, insisting she simply loved colors too much to settle on one.

“Tell me again,” Alessa said, trying to sound upbeat. “What should it feel like?”