Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked #1)(16)

On good days I came downstairs and sat before the fire in our kitchen, staring into the flames. I imagined myself burning. Not like our ancestors at the stake. An ember of anger was slowly igniting within me, reducing the person I used to be to ash.

At times my simmering rage was the only indication I was still alive.

After dinner service tonight, Nonna kept casting wary glances my way, muttering charms of good health and well-being while scouring our family grimoire. She didn’t understand the hatred I was being consumed with. Didn’t see how I longed for revenge.

Vengeance was now a part of me, as real and necessary as my heart or my lungs. During the day I was a dutiful daughter, but once night fell, I scoured the streets, spurred on by a singular need to set right a terrible wrong. I hadn’t found anyone who knew the mysterious stranger or recognized his deadly blade, and I wondered if they just didn’t want to admit anything for fear of retribution. Each day that passed fueled my growing wrath.

That dark-haired man had answers I needed. And I was losing what little patience I had. I’d started praying to the goddess of death and fury, making all sorts of promises if she’d help me find him.

So far, the goddess couldn’t be bothered.

“Buonasera, Nonna.” I set my satchel of knives on the kitchen counter in our home and dropped onto a stool. My parents insisted I spend a few hours in the restaurant each day. We could only afford to close Sea & Vine for a week to mourn Vittoria. Then, whether any of us liked it or not, life resumed. My mother still cried as often as I did and my father wasn’t doing much better. But they pretended to be strong for me. If they could try, the least I could do was trudge into the restaurant and slice some vegetables before collapsing back into my grief.

“Emilia, hand me the beeswax and dried petals.”

I found a few squares of wax and a tiny bundle of dried flowers on the sideboard. Nonna was making spell candles, and judging from the colors—white, gold, and pale purple—she was working a few different charms. Some for clairvoyance, some for luck, and some for peace.

None of us had had much peace this month. The polizia tied my sister’s murder to the two other girls. Apparently they also had their hearts ripped out, but there were no suspects or leads. They swore it wasn’t for a lack of effort on their part. But after the initial meetings, they stopped coming by our home and restaurant. They stopped asking questions. Young women died. Life resumed. Such was the way of the world, at least according to men.

No one cared that Vittoria had been slaughtered like an animal. Some more-vicious gossips even hinted that she must have deserved it. She’d somehow asked for it by being too bold, or confident, or ungodly. If she’d only been a little quieter, or more subservient, she might have been spared. As if anyone deserved to be murdered.

My family almost seemed relieved when talk shifted to new scandals. They wanted to mourn and fade into the shadows again, hoping to escape scrutiny from neighbors and police.

Nosy vendors from the marketplace came to our restaurant, ate at our tables, hoping for news, but my family was too practiced with secret-keeping to give anything away.

“Claudia stopped by,” Nonna said, breaking into my endless worries. “Again.”

I sighed. I imagined my friend was desperate if she braved speaking with Nonna. Because Claudia’s family practiced the dark arts, and because we were not supposed to associate with other witches for safety reasons, our lifelong friendship was a source of tension for each of our families. It was a rotten thing to do, but I’d been avoiding her, not ready to share our tears and grief just yet. “I’ll visit her soon.”

“Mmh.”

I watched the cauldron Nonna hung over the fire in our kitchen, breathing in the herbal mixture. I used to love when she infused her own oils. Now I could hardly sit through the process without thinking of my sister, and the times she’d beg Nonna to make special soap or cream.

Vittoria loved crafting perfume as much as I adored blending ingredients into sauces. She used to sit where I was, head bent over secret potions, tinkering until she got the scent right. A bit of floral notes, a touch of citrus, and she always included an undertone of something spicy to balance it out. She’d whoop with delight and make us all wear her latest creation until we were sick of it. One fall, she made everything out of blood orange, cinnamon, and pomegranate and I swore I’d never so much as look at any of them again. The memories were too much . . .

I pushed away from the island and kissed my grandmother. “Good night.”

Nonna inhaled deeply, like she wanted to impart some wisdom or comfort, but gave me a sad smile instead. “Buona notte, bambina. Sleep well.”

I climbed the stairs, dreading the silent empty room that was once filled with so much joy and laughter. For a second, I considered torturing myself with watching Nonna make spell candles again, but grief weighted my eyelids and tugged at my heart.

I slipped out of my muslin dress and into a thin nightgown, trying not to remember that Vittoria had the same one. Except where my ribbons were ice blue, hers were pale pink. The air was thick with summer heat, promising another restless night of tossing and turning.

I padded barefoot across the floor and pushed the window up.

I stared out across the rooftops, wondering if Vittoria’s murderer was out there now, stalking another girl. Nearby, I swore a wolf howled. A singular, mournful note hung in the air, sending a shudder down my spine.