The Young Elites (The Young Elites #1)(23)
Author: Marie Lu

“I can see and sense all the energy in the world,” he replies. “Every single thread that connects everything to everything else. I can’t do much, save to tug faintly on them—but I can feel them all.”

Here, he pauses to look me in the eye. I feel a sudden tug at my heart, as if the sight of him had set butterflies loose in my chest. My eye widens in understanding. This is why his touch along my wrist left me tingling. “No wonder your clients fall so madly in love with you, if you look like this and can literally pull on their heartstrings.”

Raffaele laughs his beautiful laugh. “Someday I’ll teach you, if you like.”

My heart thrills again at that, and I wonder if it has anything to do with Raffaele’s energy this time. “What about me?” I ask after a pause. “My power?”

“Of all the Daggers, you and I are the most alike. We sense the intangible.” Raffaele turns his eyes to me, and the sun catches the brilliant, shifting colors in his irises. “Think of the lesser gods—Formidite, the angel of Fear, or Caldora, the angel of Fury. Laetes, the angel of Joy. Denarius, the angel of Greed. Threads of energy connect not only physical things, but also emotions, thoughts, and feelings—fear, hate, love, joy, sorrow. You have the ability to pull on threads of fear and hatred. A powerful talent, if you can tame it. The more fear and hate your environment has, therefore, the stronger you are. Fear creates the strongest illusions. Everyone has darkness inside them, however hidden.” His eyes turn solemn, and I shiver, wondering what small darkness might lie within even his gentle soul.

“Was Enzo the first Elite you ever met?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

I’m suddenly curious. “How did you meet him?”

Raffaele starts putting away the powders on the table. “He bought my virgin price.”

I turn quickly in my chair to look at him. “Y-your virgin price? You mean, you and Enzo—”

“It’s not what you think.” He gives me a playful smile. “When I turned seventeen and came of age, I became an official consort of the Fortunata Court. So the court held a lavish bidding masquerade for my debut.”

I try to imagine the scene: Raffaele at my age, young and innocent, more beautiful than anyone else in the world, standing before a sea of masked nobility and preparing to give himself away. “The entire city must have turned out for you.”

Raffaele doesn’t disagree, which is confirmation enough. “Enzo came to my debut night in secret, searching for others like himself.” He hesitates for a moment, as if remembering. “I sensed him the instant he arrived, even though he stayed hidden and out of sight. Never in my life had I met another with the type of energy I had. It was the first time I could see the threads of his energy around him like a halo, weaving together and apart. He must have noticed my strange interest in him. His manservant bid on me for him, and won.”

“How much?” I ask curiously.

“An obscene amount.” He lowers his eyes. “I was frightened, you know. I’d heard stories from the older consorts about their debut nights. But when he came to my chamber, all he wanted to do was talk. So we did. He demonstrated to me his abilities with fire. I confessed my ability to sense others. We both knew we risked our lives, talking openly about our powers.”

I suddenly realize that there is only one person Raffaele never uses his talents on. Enzo. “Why do you trust him?”

My question sounds suspicious and scathing, and immediately I wish I could take it back. But Raffaele, ever graceful, simply meets my gaze with a level look. “If Enzo becomes king,” he says, “I can step away from this life.”

I dwell on the moment of sadness I’d seen from him before, then on the endless parade of aristocrats he is paid to entertain, both inside and outside the bedchamber. The lack of freedom. No one chooses the life of a consort, no matter how lavish.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say.

Raffaele pauses to look over the broken side of my face. I tense. A hint of sympathy enters his gaze, and he touches my cheek with one hand. I feel a slight tug on my heart. My anxiety calms, my chest warms in trust. Everything about his touch soothes and caresses. There is something oddly comforting about this moment. We’re not so different, the two of us.

The maid returns with an armful of silks then, and our moment ends. Raffaele gives us privacy while she helps me change into the new garments—a beautiful gold dress cut in the Tamouran style. The loose silks feel delightfully cold against my skin. Clothing from the Sunlands has always felt more comfortable than the stiff corsets and lace that Kenettrans wear.

Before the maid leaves, she places a velvet box on top of the dresser. Raffaele returns. He nods in approval at the dress. “Amouteru,” he says, lingering on the exotic accents of my family name. “I can see the Tamouran blood in you.”

As I look on in wonder, Raffaele brushes my hair until it spills down my back like a silver curtain. He twists the strands into a smooth, glossy bun behind my head in traditional Tamouran fashion, picks up two long cloths of white and gold, and carefully wraps my head with them until all of my hair is hidden underneath an elaborate, intertwined series of gold and white silk, the cloth draping down behind me in a sheet of sun and snow. He pins jewels on the cloth. He ties the Tamouran headwrap so much more skillfully than I ever have. Finally, he places a thin silver chain on my head from which a single teardrop diamond suspends at my forehead.

“There,” he says. “You will hide your markings like this from now on.”

I stare at myself, stunned. My cheekbones and nose, the elegant sweep of my eye, all enhanced. I have never looked more Tamouran in my life. It’s a convincing disguise.

Raffaele smiles at my expression. “I have a present for you,” he says. He turns and opens the velvet box on the dresser.

My heart skips a beat.

It’s a white half mask, made of porcelain and cold to the touch. Diamonds trace along its edges and twinkle in the light, and trails of bright glitter paint elaborate patterns across the mask’s pale surface. Tiny white plumes arch at the point where it curves up toward the temple. I can only stare. Never in my life have I worn something so finely crafted.

“I commissioned this for you,” Raffaele says. “Care to try it?”

I nod wordlessly.

Raffaele positions the half mask over my face. It fits snugly, like a long-lost possession, something that has always been a part of my body. Now snow-white porcelain and lines of shining light conceal the spot where my eye used to be. The mask covers it all. Without the distraction of my marking, the natural beauty of my face shines through.