Legendary (Caraval #2)(80)

“Let go of her!” roared a voice.

The hand was ripped from Tella’s neck. Then arms were scooping Tella up, pulling her tight to a pounding chest that smelled of ink and sweat and fury.

“I believe it’s against the law to kill someone for borrowing a cloak,” Dante snarled at the vendor.

Splotches of angry red colored the man’s bearded face. “She wasn’t borrowing it. She stole it!”

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” Dante said. “The cloak’s in your hands now. I never saw it in hers. But I did see you trying to kill her.”

The vendor sputtered a string of curses.

“Give us the garment and I won’t have you arrested,” Dante said.

Tella could only see his chest from this angle, but she imagined he looked like a warrior—standing there without a shirt in all his godlike splendor and dressed like a vengeful star just fallen from the heavens.

“Fine,” grumbled the man. “I don’t want the soiled thing anymore.”

“And I’ll take one for myself, in black.” Dante’s voice was merciless, a tone Tella had never heard cross his lips, yet everything he did with her was gentle. He tenderly tucked the cape around her bare shoulders and shaking legs.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Tella wished she could have nodded or laughed and teased him for being so concerned. But when she tried to laugh it sounded strangled, and when she attempted to nod her head fell pathetically onto his chest.

She didn’t want to cry. Neither the filthy vendor nor her mother was worthy of a single tear. But while Tella could easily shake off the feel of the vendor’s rough hands, she couldn’t do the same with the words her mother had said. Not only had her mother left her, she’d sold Tella off. Not Scarlett; that hadn’t even been a consideration. It seemed her mother hadn’t been without love. She just hadn’t loved Tella.

More tears fell from Tella’s eyes.

“I hope she dies!” Tella didn’t know if she’d muttered it, or raged it. “For years I prayed to any saint who might be listening to please keep her alive until I was able to find her. I wasted all my prayers on her, and she gave me away like a stained rag. But I take it all back!” Tella did shout then. “I take it all back! You can let her die or rot in her paper prison. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.…”

Tella didn’t know how many times she muttered those last four words.

Dante just kept stroking her hair and her back with strong, comforting fingers as he continued to carry her. Occasionally he’d press something that felt like a kiss to the top of her head. But it wasn’t until she fell silent that he finally asked, “Where do you want me to take you?”

“Somewhere to forget.”





33

Tella buried her head back against Dante’s warm chest. She was so tired. Tired of games and lies, and broken hearts, and tired of trying to rescue herself and her mother. She wanted to forget about it all. Maybe she closed her eyes and slept, or maybe it only took him a moment to carry her far away from the park. It seemed very little time had passed before she heard his low voice again.

“Are you all right to walk?”

Tella managed a nod and Dante smoothly set her down in front of a narrow set of crumbling steps overrun by moss and laced with forsaken spiderwebs. Ruins so abandoned not even the insects had stayed. But they seemed to be lit by the stars. Tella looked up and saw that they were on the edge of the sparkling white heart Legend had placed in the sky.

“What is this place?” Tella asked.

“Valenda’s older myths claim this belonged to a governor who ruled long before the Meridian Empire began, back when the Fates reigned on earth.” Dante guided her up the steps into the skeleton of an old estate. Tella’s nana Anna always said a person’s beauty was determined by their bones. If that were true, the bones of this manor made Tella think it must have been resplendent once.

The crumbling pillars and overgrown courtyards spoke of ancient wealth, while the cracked statues and ghosts of painted ceilings hinted at disappearing art. Only one relic seemed to have avoided the deadly caress of time. A fountain in the central courtyard, shaped in the form of a woman dressed similar to Tella, who held a pitcher that poured an endless stream of currant-red water into the pool surrounding her ankles.

“They say this place is cursed,” Dante continued. “During one of the governor’s many parties, his wife discovered that he planned to poison her so that he could wed his younger mistress. Rather than drinking the poison, the wife added three drops of her own blood and poured it out as an offering to one of the Fates—the Poisoner. She vowed to live the rest of her life in service as one of his handmaidens, as long as he granted her one request.”

“What did she ask for?”

“The wife didn’t know who her husband’s mistress was, but she knew the woman was at the party. So she wished that her husband would only remember his wife.”

“What happened then?”

“The Poisoner granted her wish. After drinking a poisonous glass of wine, her husband forgot every person he’d ever met, except for his wife.” Dante shot a wry glace at the statue pouring her bottomless pitcher.

“Is that supposed to be the wife?” Tella asked.