The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

Both men drank wine. Father must be in a negotiating mood tonight, I thought, to have tapped one of our last good casks.

I opened the door a little wider, crept out into the hall, and sat, knees to my chin, along the stairs. My favorite spot. Sometimes I’d pretend I was a queen, and that I stood here on a palace balcony looking down at my groveling subjects. Now I took up my usual crouch and listened closely to the conversation downstairs. As always, I made sure my hair covered my scar. My hand rested awkwardly on the staircase. My father had broken my fourth finger, and it never healed straight. Even now, I could not curl it properly around the railing.

“I don’t mean to insult you, Master Amouteru,” the man said to my father. “You were a merchant of good reputation. But that was a long time ago. I don’t want to be seen doing business with a malfetto family—bad luck, you know. There’s little you can offer me.”

My father kept a smile on his face. The forced smile of a business transaction. “There are still lenders in town who work with me. I can pay you back as soon as the port traffic picks up. Tamouran silks and spices are in high demand this year—”

The man looked unimpressed. “The king’s dumb as a dog,” he replied. “And dogs are no good at running countries. The ports will be slow for years to come, I’m afraid, and with the new tax laws, your debts will only grow. How can you possibly repay me?”

My father leaned back in his chair, sipped his wine, and sighed. “There must be something I can offer you.”

The man studied his glass of wine thoughtfully. The harsh lines of his face made me shiver. “Tell me about Adelina. How many offers have you received?”

My father blushed. As if the wine hadn’t left him red enough already. “Offers for Adelina’s hand have been slow to come.”

The man smiled. “None for your little abomination, then.”

My father’s lips tightened. “Not as many as I’d like,” he admitted.

“What do the others say about her?”

“The other suitors?” My father rubbed a hand across his face. Admitting all my flaws embarrassed him. “They say the same thing. It always comes back to her . . . markings. What can I tell you, sir? No one wants a malfetto bearing his children.”

The man listened, making sympathetic sounds.

“Haven’t you heard the latest news from Estenzia? Two noblemen walking home from the opera were found burned to a crisp.” My father had quickly changed tack, hoping now that the stranger would take pity on him. “Scorch marks on the wall, their bodies melted from the inside out. Everyone is frightened of malfettos, sir. Even you are reluctant to do business with me. Please. I’m helpless.”

I knew what my father spoke of. He was referring to very specific malfettos—a rare handful of children who came out of the blood fever with scars far darker than mine, frightening abilities that don’t belong in this world. Everyone talked about these malfettos in hushed whispers; most feared them and called them demons. But I secretly held them in awe. People said they could conjure fire out of thin air. Could call the wind. Could control beasts. Could disappear. Could kill in the blink of an eye.

If you searched the black market, you’d find flat wooden engravings for sale, elaborately carved with their names, forbidden collectibles that supposedly meant they would protect you—or, at the least, that they would not hurt you. No matter the opinion, everyone knew their names. The Reaper. Magiano. The Windwalker. The Alchemist.

The Young Elites.

The man shook his head. “I’ve heard that even the suitors who refuse Adelina still gape at her, sick with desire.” He paused. “True, her markings are . . . unfortunate. But a beautiful girl is a beautiful girl.” Something strange glinted in his eyes. My stomach twisted at the sight, and I tucked my chin tighter against my knees, as if for protection.

My father looked confused. He sat up taller in his chair and pointed his wineglass at the man. “Are you making me an offer for Adelina’s hand?”

The man reached into his coat to produce a small brown pouch, then tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy clink. As a merchant’s daughter, one becomes well acquainted with money—and I could tell from the sound and from the size of the coins that the purse was filled to the brim with gold talents. I stifled a gasp.

As my father gaped at the contents, the man leaned back and thoughtfully sipped his wine. “I know of the estate taxes you haven’t yet paid to the crown. I know of your new debts. And I will cover all of them in exchange for your daughter Adelina.”

My father frowned. “But you have a wife.”

“I do, yes.” The man paused, then added, “I never said I wanted to marry her. I am merely proposing to take her off your hands.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You . . . want her as your mistress, then?” Father asked.

The man shrugged. “No nobleman in his right mind would make a wife of such a marked girl—she could not possibly attend public affairs on my arm. I have a reputation to uphold, Master Amouteru. But I think we can work this out. She will have a home, and you will have your gold.” He raised a hand. “One condition. I want her now, not in a year. I’ve no patience to wait until she turns seventeen.”

A strange buzzing filled my ears. No boy or girl was allowed to give themselves to another until they turned seventeen. This man was asking my father to break the law. To defy the gods.

My father raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t argue. “A mistress,” he finally said. “Sir, you must know what this will do to my reputation. I might as well sell her to a brothel.”