Chapter Forty-Seven
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I N THE WINGS OF THE E MPIRE T HEATRE, T HOMAS AWAITED HIS FATE as if it were the guillotine. All morning, he’d been shuffled around his pleasure palace, hobnobbing and shaking hands, giving interviews and pretending that his world wasn’t shattering all around him, but now, in the darkness, in these last few moments of freedom, he could no longer pretend.
Dr. Samson flanked him, playing the role of the best man to Thomas’s groom. He seemed as enthused to be there as Thomas did—which was to say, with all the excitement of a man awaiting execution.
At length, a stagehand approached Thomas and whispered that it was time. The orchestra pit overflowed with the music of some grand number and, as they’d rehearsed this morning, the performers filed out onto the stage to the awe and applause of every member of their sold-out audience. Thomas and his groomsman followed the bishop, landing in their assigned places last.
Thomas knew he wasn’t doing particularly well at performing the part of the happy groom. He fought to force some kind of smile, anything to convince the world he hadn’t been bullied into this fantastic match of his.
But then, Andrew had to rob him of that smile.
“Thomas?”
He didn’t move his eyes from the back door of the theater, where Constance would, in a moment, make her grand entrance in front of their thousands of close, personal friends.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“How is that old heart of yours?”
A difficult question. So easy to answer. “Don’t have one anymore.”
And just like that, the orchestra began their rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon. The bishop stepped forward.
The wedding began.
And Thomas’s life ended.