The Rose Society (The Young Elites #2)(95)

“He cares for you, you know.” Violetta turns her head briefly in the direction of the closed doors. “Magiano. I’ve seen him standing guard outside your door, making sure you aren’t having another nightmare or an illusion.”

Her words sink in, and I find myself looking at the closed doors too. I wish I hadn’t sent him away to the treasury. I would have asked him why he told me to be careful, what he sees when he looks at me. Why his expression had seemed so sad.

“I know,” I say.

“Do you care for him?”

“I don’t know how to,” I reply.

Violetta gives me a sidelong look. I know she can hear in my voice the evidence that he means more to me than I’m revealing. She sighs, then waves for me as she walks toward the steps leading up to the throne. Our footsteps echo in unison. She sits down on the bottom step, and I join her.

“Let him in,” she says. “I know you’re holding back.” She stares out at the long, empty expanse of the chamber. “Keep him close. His love is light, and it calls out the light in you.” Her eyes come to settle on me.

Something whispers in irritation at the back of my mind, resisting the advice. “You’re telling me this because you think I love him?”

“I’m telling you this because he calms you,” she says, her tone uncharacteristically sharp and biting. “You’re going to need it.”

“Why?”

Violetta doesn’t say anything more. I watch her tiny movements—the tightening of the skin around her eyes, the way she squeezes her hands together in her lap. There is definitely something she’s not telling me. Again, the whispers in my mind hum their disapproval.

“What’s wrong?” I say, firmer this time.

Violetta’s fidgeting hands separate from each other. One of them tucks into a pocket in her skirt. She swallows, then turns to me. “There was something I found on board Queen Maeve’s ship,” she begins. “I thought it wise to tell you later, when we had a moment alone.”

“What is it?”

“It is … from Raffaele, I think.” Violetta hesitates. “Here.” She reaches down into the pockets of her skirts, then takes out a wrinkled parchment. She unfurls it and holds it before both of us. Our heads lean in together. I squint, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It is a smattering of sketches, interspersed with words written in Raffaele’s unmistakably beautiful calligraphy.

“Yes,” I agree, taking the parchment from Violetta. “This is his writing, without doubt.”

“Yes,” Violetta echoes.

I run my hand along the parchment, imagining Raffaele’s deft quill gliding across the surface. I remember him writing pages and pages of notes about Elites back at the Fortunata Court, how he would always record everything he saw in my training. He is the Messenger, after all, tasked with immortalizing us and our powers in writing. I begin to read the parchment.

“He talks about Lucent,” Violetta says. “Do you remember the night at the arena, when Lucent broke her wrist?”

I nod. My hands start to tremble as I read each of Raffaele’s notes.

“Raffaele says … that her wrist did not break because of combat. It broke because her powers … her ability to control the wind, to move the air …” Violetta takes a deep breath. “Adelina, Lucent’s wrist broke because her power has started to eat away at her. Wind is hollowing out her bones. It seems the more powerful we are, the faster our bodies will crumble.”

I shake my head, unwilling to understand. “What is he suggesting? That we …”

“That, in a few years, Lucent will die from this.”

I frown. That cannot be right. I stop and start again at the top, analyzing Raffaele’s sketches, reading his writing, wondering what I’m missing. Violetta must be misinterpreting this. My gaze lingers on the sketches Raffaele has drawn of threads of energy in the air, his observations about Lucent.

Wind is hollowing out her bones. Lucent will die from this.

But that means … I read further, looking at a brief note about Michel at the bottom of the parchment. The faster I read, the more I realize what he is saying. He is saying that, someday, Michel will die because his body will bleed from pulling objects through the air. That Maeve will succumb to the poisons of the Underworld. That Sergio’s body will starve from being unable to retain water. That Magiano will go mad from mimicking other powers.

“This is impossible,” I whisper.

Violetta’s voice trembles. “Raffaele is saying that all of us, all Elites, are in danger.”

That we are doomed to be forever young.

I’m silent. Then I shake my head. The parchment’s edges crinkle in my grip. “No. But that makes no sense,” I say, turning my back on Violetta and walking close to the windows. From here, we can make out the commotion down below, the noise of thousands of uncertain civilians and anxious malfettos, none of whom know what rule under an Elite will be like. “Our powers are our strengths. How can Raffaele possibly know such a thing, just from one broken wrist?”

“It does make sense. None of our bodies were ever designed to wield powers like this. We may be the children of the gods, but we are not gods. Don’t you see? The blood fever left us tied to the immortal energy of the world in such a way that our fragile, mortal bodies cannot possibly hope to keep up.”