This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(55)

“No. Just checking something.”

“Left a lantern burning?”

“Something like that.”

The day stretched ahead of her, silent and lonely, but she pasted on a smile and told him to go right ahead.

“First, let me show you the barricade I found—” Dante tensed as they entered her suite. “Wait. Someone’s been in here.”

Her eyes darted in every direction, but the only thing out of place was a platter of lemon verbena cookies on the table. She could smell the zesty tang and see the curls of candied lemon peel on top.

“It’s okay,” she said, exhaling. “Someone dropped off treats.”

“Don’t the servants usually leave food in the hall?” he asked. “How many people have keys to your suite?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Someone comes to change the linens and to clean and…” She squirmed under his judging gaze.

“We’re changing the locks.” Dante reached the platter first, snatching it up to sniff it.

She crossed her arms. “Are you going to lick them, too, or do I get one?”

He took a small bite and promptly spit it into his hand. “Daphne.”

“Who?”

“Daphne gnidium. A poison that tastes terrible, so you probably wouldn’t have eaten enough for it to kill you, but even a few bites and you’d wish it had. Be thankful for amateur assassins.”

She sat with a gusty exhale. “How do you know what poison tastes like?”

“I was a stupid kid.” He dumped the remaining treats into a trash bin, examined the tray, then tossed it, too. “I’ll get your food from now on. One of the kitchen maids was eager enough to show me around. I’ll talk to her.”

Apparently, a rogue poisoning was just another day in the life of the Wolf.

Or not.

Dante tapped a knife against his thigh. “Dammit. I don’t like leaving you unprotected.”

“Then take me with you.”

“The city isn’t safe.”

“Neither is the Cittadella, apparently. My parents are bakers. They might know who made the cookies. I doubt they’re harboring assassins in the storeroom, so you can leave me there while you run your errand.”

Dante frowned. “I don’t know…”

“No one will recognize me. I won’t be dressed like the Finestra, and half the guards are busy salvaging supplies in the storage levels that got flooded the other day.”

“Do you always break this many rules?”

“Believe it or not, it’s a new development.” She clasped her hands below her chin. “Please, Dante. Even if they don’t know about the cookies, I want to see them. If you’re right about why I keep hurting people, maybe closure would help.”

“Or make it worse.”

“Please?”

She hid her satisfaction when he grumbled assent. If he ever realized how often she got her way by making doll eyes at him, Dante would never agree to anything again.

Alessa hung up the ruby gown and riffled through her closet, settling on a simple blue dress with long sleeves that mostly concealed her gloves, and gold tights so pale her legs appeared bare unless one looked closely. She wanted to return home as herself, not the Finestra, so she cleaned her face and parted her hair, braiding it into a simple plait down her back.

Looking at her reflection, she had the strangest sense it wasn’t a mirror at all, but a window to another life, a glimpse of the girl she could have been. She tried on a carefree smile, but it didn’t fit. There was no other Alessa, no other life. This was all she had.



* * *



The quaint storefront was fancier than it used to be, the lettering redrawn in gold, the windows replaced with beveled panels.

“Nice-looking place,” Dante said, probably wondering why Alessa was staring at it instead of entering.

“They’ve made good use of their stipend.” She should probably be glad the monthly payments they received for their sacrifice—for sacrificing her—were helping the family business, but she wasn’t noble enough to hide her bitterness.

“Want me to come in?” Dante asked.

“No,” she said. It would be hard enough without a witness. “Just come back as soon as you’re done.”

It was almost closing time, and the bakery was empty, the display case lacking its usual goods. Cloaked in the lingering scents of yeast and sugar and her childhood, Alessa locked the door behind her and flipped the sign.

“We’re about to close for the day, but there are a few loaves—” Her father walked out from the back room, dusting his flour-coated hands on his apron, and jerked to a stop at the sight of her.

His hair was longer, more salt than pepper, and his face was slightly more drawn, but his expression matched the last one she’d seen on his face—dismay and awe, tempered with melancholy.

“Finestra.” His arms lifted, then dropped. “What brings you here?”

She ached for the hug that wouldn’t happen. “Hello, Papa. Please, use my name.”

He darted a look around the empty kitchen. “Alessa. My little love, you’re all grown up.”

“I’ve missed you.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

He came out from behind the counter but stayed out of reach. “We’ve missed you. I’ll never understand why the gods make the choices they do, but I have faith. I know this can’t be easy.”