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And now she had to deal with knives flying at her head and hands itching to wring her neck.

Frightened people crave certainty.

Shewas frightened, but even worse, beneath the fear and grief and anger was a whiff of relief. For years, she’d clung to her parents’ faith. Then she’d become the blessed Finestra, and it had been easy enough to have faith at first. But now, with everyone else’s certainty stripped away, it turned out she had none of her own.

If Ivini was right, she’d wasted the final years of her life. She couldn’t bear that.

If he was wrong, her death would doom them all. She couldn’t risk that.

Papa always told her not to trust fear, but fear was all she had.

Fear. Stubbornness. And the simmering anger she’d been tamping down since that knife drew her blood.

Every swallow brought tears to her eyes, but the burn in her throat threatened to ignite a fire in her chest that would spread, take over, scorch her from within until she was nothing but a pile of ash.

And she was going to let it.

If she failed again, she’d have her answer, the sign she’d been waiting for. If her hands killed once more, she’d sacrifice herself for the greater good.

But first, one last try.

Back in her room, Alessa stood before the mirror on trembling legs. The dark shadows below her eyes echoed the bruises around her neck, but her eyes sparked with determination.

She dressed at quarter speed, inching a loose dress up her torso and gently knotting a shawl around her neck to hide the evidence. If anyone reacted when they saw her, she needed to know it was because they didn’t expect her to be alive, not because they were shocked by her injuries.

She chose the two sharpest of the small knives in her kitchenette and carefully slid one inside each of her tall boots.

As she reached the ground floor, a regiment marched past. Boots. So many boots. Each identical to the pairhe’dbeen wearing.

Alessa froze, her muscles seizing in terror. She hadn’t seen her attacker’s face. He could be one of them, still moving through the Cittadella with impunity.

One soldier flicked a quick glance her way and frowned. Alessa couldn’t tell if the woman’s reaction was pity or distaste, but it was enough to snap her out of her trance.

Alessa ran through her plan before opening the door. If Tomo and Renata showed any sign of shock or disappointment when she entered, she would know.

She stepped inside, waiting as the door closed behind her.

Renata gave a little wave and yawned into her espresso.

“Good morning, Finestra.” Tomo pushed his chair back and bowed. “You’re early today.”

“No time to waste.” Forced detachment cooled Alessa’s voice, making her sound abnormally calm.

They didn’t notice. Renata drained her cup, oblivious, and Tomo turned back to his news sheet.

Alessa fought the urge to exhale. To trust. She couldn’t forget. Even if they hadn’t ordered last night’s assassination, they might order the next. Her fortress had always been a cage, but now itfelt like a trap about to spring. She’d be a fool to trust anyone in the Cittadella.

She needed someone to watch her back. Someone who defended the weak and didn’t buy into Ivini’s theory. Someone who might be desperate for something only she could offer. Someone who didn’t back down—or step aside—from anyone, especially the Cittadella’s soldiers.

Hope flared, bright enough to burn.

She needed to visit the Bottom of the Barrel.

Nine

Chi ha più bisogno, e più s’arrenda.

Beggars can’t be choosers.