Page 25 of Iron Roses
I step into a room shaped like a chapel.
The ceiling curves high above me, painted in faded blue. Saints line the arches along the walls, none of them smiling. Their eyes look past me. Each clutches something—scroll, sword, dagger. Flame. Each one carved with a reverence that feels almost threatening.
The sconces are iron, twisted like thorns. Candles burn low, their wax pooled thick beneath them. No windows. No sound but my own breathing.
At the center of the room stands an altar.
Marble. Stark white veined with red, square and unadorned—except for a symbol carved directly into its surface: two rings, interlocked, with a blade slashing through the center. A black linen cloth drapes across it, edges worn thin. Beneath the altar, a single rosary lies coiled. Bone-white beads.
But it’s the far wall that pulls me.
Paintings.
Five.
Lit by individual candles beneath each one. Gold-leaf frames. No glass.
All of her. Giovanna.
My mouth goes dry.
In one, she stands in profile, her expression serene, hair swept up with a pearl comb I vaguely remember from our mother’s vanity. In another, she’s seated, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze locked directly on the artist—calm, but not passive.The third shows her laughing, her head slightly turned, a shadow of joy caught in movement. I can barely breathe.
And then—The last one.
She faces forward. One hand rests on her stomach. The other hangs by her side. The background bleeds into deep crimson. Her eyes hold something I can’t name. There’s no smile in this one.
I take a step back. My shoulder brushes the cold limestone wall.
My legs feel locked, rooted to the stone floor as my eyes stay fixed on the last portrait.
Her hand on her stomach.
The red background.
The absence of a smile.
Everything about it is wrong. Like the painter saw something in her no one else did and trapped it there—forever staring, forever haunted.
Why?
Why are these here?
Why her? Why am I here?
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the portraits.
I walk toward the altar. There’s a strange weight in my limbs now, like the moment before a fever breaks. I place my hand on the surface for balance. The marble is cool, grounding.
I stare down at it. The cloth draped across the altar is rough black linen, faded at the corners. It’s been touched—often.
The shape of something underneath pulls my attention. I hesitate, then peel the fabric back.
My fingers pause over a faint, discolored section of the stone.
A mark. Darker than the rest of the altar. It spreads in a faint, uneven shape over the carved symbol beneath it—two rings, bound together, crossed by a blade.
I stare.
