This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(54)

Curses are like parades: They return from whence they came.

DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 19


She was dying. She had to be. Her skull seemed determined to split down the middle, and she was fairly certain heads weren’t meant to do that. She swayed, grasping for something to hold herself up, but finding only air.

Dante caught her elbow. “Steady.”

“How many times—” She tugged but couldn’t get away and gave up as the movement sent the world swooping.

“Relax. I’m wearing gloves, and you have long sleeves and gloves.”

“Nothing in the history of the world has ever been less effective than telling a person to relax.” She yanked her arm free. “My head hurts.”

“Should’ve had more water.”

She found the wall and pressed her forehead against the stone. “I’m dying.”

“You aren’t dying. You’re hungover.”

“Why aren’t you hungover?”

“Do you want me to be?”

“Yes. I do. Very much so.”

“And here I thought we were such good friends.”

Were they? She hadn’t had a friend since she was thirteen, but maybe a night of drunken idiocy was how it worked for adults. She couldn’t think over the loud throbbing in her head—because throbbing had a sound all of a sudden—so she set her mind to walking instead. Duty waited, whether she was up for it or not.

“Sometimes the best cure is a bit more poison. There might be a little left in the bottle.”

She gagged. “Sounds like advice invented by a greedy pub owner.”

“Come on, you need to eat something.”

Alessa’s stomach performed acrobatics as she took her seat. Sweat beaded her forehead, hot and clammy at the same time. Checking to be sure no one was looking, she pressed a water glass against her cheek, sighing at the cool.

Dante deposited a plain roll on her plate, glared at her to eat, and returned to his post by the door.

Alessa nudged it away and swallowed a few times.

Kaleb had already bolted for the day, and the remaining Fontes scarfed down their pastries and juice, clearly eager to begin their day off.

“Too much fun last night?” Kamaria smirked at her while Nina chattered to Josef about which temple service they should attend, or whether they should attend them all to cover their bases.

Alessa stared at her fork in misery.

“What are your plans for the afternoon, Finestra?” Saida asked. “Do you get to leave after your portrait session?”

Alessa gave up on eating. “I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

“Oh.” Saida chewed her lip. “Sorry.”

The one good thing about her itinerary was the fact that the only thing she needed to do to survive the day was sit.

It nearly killed her anyway.

It took an hour before Mastro Pasquale was satisfied with her pose, since she couldn’t physically arrange her subject, and Alessa was worse at taking directions than usual.

Silver haired, vaguely androgynous, and with features so striking she could have been one of her own sculptures, the mastro also had such a dry wit Alessa could never be sure if she was joking and had learned long ago that it was always safer not to laugh.

Mastro Pasquale finally moved behind her easel but continued to quiz her former pupil about sfumato and chiaroscuro, ordering her to tilt her head, arch her back, raise and then lower her chin, while she sketched an initial outline.

Long before the artist declared an end to the day’s session, Alessa was convinced sitting was the most difficult physical task of them all. Her only consolation was that Dante had looked a bit stunned when she stepped out in the red gown, and he’d barely looked away since.

“Beautiful contrapposto,” Mastro Pasquale said to Dante, who’d been watching the ordeal from a safe distance. “Finestra, you see the smooth line of leg there, how the off-axis twist of his torso accentuates both shoulders and hip?”

Dante looked slightly alarmed as Alessa nodded thoughtfully.

Mastro Pasquale snapped her fingers. “You should come to my studio and model for my next sculpture.”

“You really should,” Alessa said through gritted teeth so she didn’t ruin the “curve of her neck” for the third time. “Mastro Pasquale is famous for her attention to anatomical details.”

“This is true,” the mastro said as she began packing up her supplies. “I pay well, too, but don’t bother coming by if you’re a wilting violet.”

Alessa rubbed her neck. “Oh, Dante assures me he is not shy at all.”

“Excellent. Here’s my card. Finestra, it’s been an honor. I will return when your Fonte is ready.” She handed Dante a gilded slip of paper and swept out of the gardens.

Dante flicked the card at Alessa. “Did you just volunteer me as a nude model?”

Alessa plucked the card from where it fell in the grass. “You spend half your time standing around and scowling. Might as well get paid for it.”

“You’re already paying me for it, and I get to keep my clothes on.”

As they reached the fourth floor, Dante stopped. “Is it okay if I run out real quick? You should be safe enough if you lock yourself in. Won’t take long.”

Alessa’s heart and stomach competed to see which could sink faster at the prospect of the rest of the day alone, locked in her rooms while everyone else spent time with family and friends. Even Dante had better things to do on his day off than stay with her. “Visiting someone special?”