Chapter 2
SIX MONTHS LATER
“You look beautiful, my love,” my mother coos as she runs her hands over the bodice of my gown.
“Thank you, my lady. You were right about the color,” I say as I stare into the mirror.
The deep red of my wedding dress is a stark contrast to my fashionably white skin, like blood on freshly fallen snow.
Unbidden, images of my unresponsive body creep into my mind.
Imagine the drama of it all! My lifeless limbs stretched out, crimson pooling around me, a million little snowflakes soaking up the red, melting from the warmth of it.
My mother—screaming, my father commanding his soldiers to fetch me, my husband-to-be distraught by my demise.
‘She was so young,’ they will say, ‘her beauty will be unmatched,’ they will scream.
But I will be dead, unmoving eyes staring up into the gray sky.
My gravestone will read “Here lies Ada, future Empress of all, stolen by fate before the crown could touch her brow, leaving the King to reign in mourning for the rest of his days.”
Charles would never marry another, of course. He’d build abbeys and castles in my honor, ensuring the memory of the greatest almost-Queen-of-Vranquia would stay alive for centuries to come.
I sigh.
Dying a tragic death might almost be worth it.
Unfortunately, one can rarely plan ahead for such a thing, unless one has a death wish. Which I do not.
Behind me, a maid enters the room.
She looks barely older than me, and yet there is a gap between us that neither of us could ever cross.
“M’lady, the King has sent a present.”
She hands my mother a small velvet pouch and bows ever so slightly before retreating to the back of the room.
“A present.” My mother is practically floating.
I hate it when her voice sounds all factitious.
I wonder who she is playing the role of doting mother-in-law for.
If she is trying to convince herself, or me, that this union will bring anything more than sorrow.
To an outsider, she might seem like the headless Countess, drawn in by the promise of power and influence.
But I know her. I can see the tightness in her shoulders, the sorrow in her eyes when she thinks I am not looking, and I notice the tilt of her mouth every time someone mentions the King.
“Love, hand me your veil and let’s sit down for a moment. Let’s see what the King has gifted you.”
I step down from the pedestal, my legs stiff from standing upright for nearly two hours. My slippers are too tight, and the embroidered flowers on the bodice keep digging painfully into my side.
The seamstress ignored my complaints.
“That is precisely why we are putting the dress on now. By the time the ceremony commences, your feet and skin will have gotten used to the fit,” she had simply exclaimed and then vanished. As if my body would simply adjust to the clothing, skin and bones melding themselves to fit the dress.
I carefully walk over to the sofa, pins and needles spreading through my feet at the renewed blood flow.
“Thank you, Mother. Would you be so kind as to hand me the pouch?” I ask.
My mother hands me the King’s present, her hawk eyes taking in the contents of the bag.
A letter and a ring.
My dear Fastrada,
It fills me with joy to celebrate the union of our families on this day. Take this gift from me as a symbol of my devotion to the peace of our nation and my attachment to you. I will be looking forward to getting to know you.
Charles
Hmm.
Disappointment seeps through my skin. The union of our families, of course.
Because that is the reason for this match, not love.
Only a few people know that my father has an entirely different motive for marrying me off to the King.
It’s not about stability for the kingdom or honor for our family.
It’s about the most valuable thing there is: information.
It should not come as a surprise that the letter isn’t a declaration of undying love.
The man has never met me. All he has seen is a portrait, which, according to my father, has brought the King ‘great pleasure,’ but still—he has had no opportunity to fall in love with me.
And yet, my foolish heart is dreaming of the collision of our souls and minds, a sense of knowing that this is to be true love.
I shrug. It might not be a love letter, but he has sent me a ring.
It’s a band of gold, wrought with entwining vines and set with a dark red garnet cut as smooth as a drop of blood.
How very fitting.
The ring feels heavy in my hand, much heavier than any ring should.
“It’s beautiful.” I smile at my mother.
“It is a thoughtful gift for sure, and shows His Majesty has excellent taste. Now, let’s get some food into you, the ceremony will commence soon and you’ll need your strength for the day ahead.”
Before I rise to follow my mother, I slip the ring onto my finger.
On cue, the vise around my heart tightens.
The first time it happened was in my father’s study, when the sealed letter to the King changed hands. A notch, that’s what it felt like. A notch in some unseen wheel slipping forward.
The second time is now. The gold cools against my skin, the garnet seems to darken, and there it is again: the wheel advancing, the next tooth engaging.
As if my life is part of some vast design, a destiny already prepared and drawing nearer. I wonder when it will shut, like a clasp.
Click.
* * *
The carriage comes to a halt with a dull thud.
The air inside is close and stale, unbearably hot, even for July.
I am not a sweaty person, not like my father’s valet.
As kids, we used to delight in taking bets on just how many handkerchiefs the portly Mr Edwards would go through a day.
I only won the bet once, on a particularly hot day in spring, when my father made his valet set up a garden party in the heat… seventy-six handkerchiefs.
I sigh. I have exactly one handkerchief, and I stuff it between my breasts, where the sweat is running freely.
The midday sun blazes, though from the window I can see dark clouds gathering slowly in the west.
A knock at the door.
“Are you ready, m’lady?” the King’s footman asks.
I draw a deep breath. “Yes.”
The door swings open, and a roar of cheers rushes in. The marketplace is packed with people in their Sunday best, handkerchiefs fluttering like the leaves of the magnolia trees in front of the chapel in spring.
I take it all in, the toothless smiling faces, their excited waves in hope of receiving a coin.
I signal to the footman to open the purse.
A murmur erupts in the crowd, the clinking sound of the currency like a Hail Mary to the citizens of Acheron.
The footman lifts his arm and starts throwing the valuable pieces of metal into the crowd.
“Thank you, m’lady!” an old woman with a leathery face cries.
“M’lady, blessed be you and your union,” another voice shouts.
People are clapping and awing as I turn in my blood red dress.
I beam, showing my best smile. It’s a genuine one, the adoration of the crowd is something I could get used to.
I wave and smile, gesturing for the footmen to hand me some of the flowers people have thrown my way.
They are already wilted from being without water for too long, but they look like they used to be quite pretty.
The shouts of the crowd get louder; more and more coins are being thrown into the mass of bodies.
Even the people at the back have now heard about their generous Queen-to-be. I can see them pushing forward, trying to get closer to the cathedral entrance.
Hands that were waving now claw at the air. A coin skitters over the stones, and a dozen people dive for it at once. The laughter breaks, shatters into arguments, into shouts. Somewhere, a child begins to wail.
I laugh again, but it comes out thinner than I intend.
The sea of faces shifts; the smiles are gone, replaced with open, hungry mouths.
The press of bodies knits tighter. People surge forward, and the line of footmen bows like a piece of wood about to snap.
The last of the coins vanish as if the ground itself has swallowed them, and still, they push, push, push.
A man grabs another by the collar. I see the jerk of his arm, a hard swing, and then the two disappear beneath a wave of hats and elbows.
“Inside, Your Grace,” someone says at my ear, voice suddenly clipped.
I try to wave again, to make it gentle, pretty, like before, but the crowd is no longer looking at me. They are looking at the purse. At the soldiers. At each other. A woman stumbles and is borne sideways by the press as if she weighs nothing.
My dress sticks damply to my back.
For the first time, the cheering sounds like roaring.
A hand closes around my arm—not unkindly, but firm—and I am turned, guided toward the yawning doors of the cathedral.
Behind me, coins scatter like sparks; a cry goes up, not in blessing this time but in pain or triumph, I cannot tell which.
The thunder of feet and voices swells, filling the square, filling my head.
I do not look back again.
The heavy iron doors behind us close with a distinctive thud, almost shutting out the shouts from the crowd outside. My skin feels feverishly hot, the sweat in the cooler air of the cathedral eliciting shivers all over my body.
“Are you alright, m’lady?” An older man’s voice cuts through my spiral.
“Yes, yes, I am sorry. Just a little shaken up. Will the people outside be alright?” I ask, looking back toward where the crowd is still fighting.
“Never worry, my child. The King’s soldiers know how to handle the crowd; you are quite safe in here.”
A gloved hand lands on my shoulder.
I look up and glare into the watery blue eyes of the bishop.
Their bright color is almost unnerving, his stare that much more intense because of it.
His face is weathered; he is either very old or has spent a significant amount of time outside in the sun.
His eyebrows are a sight to behold, bushy and unruly, nearly merging into one.
They almost hide the laughter lines around his eyes, but they are still visible.
My whole body relaxes.
He smirks and pats my shoulder.
“There you go, m’lady. Shall we go inside? I believe a very impatient king is waiting for your arrival.”
Right.
The King. My wedding.
I draw my shoulders back and wiggle my torso a little. Unlike the seamstress predicted, I can still feel the painful twinge of the corset on my rib cage. Just a few more steps and I’ll be able to sit down.
The bishop gestures toward the double doors leading into the octagon of the cathedral. A young woman walks over and curtsies before me. I repeat the motion and hear her snicker.
“You’re the Queen-to-be, m’lady. It is entirely unnecessary to curtsy for anyone, save the King.”
Her tone is light and friendly, but a veil is hiding her face and it’s hard to see whether she is laughing at me or about me.
“Forgive me. It is a habit I shall have to cast off in time,” I respond demurely.
“My name is Aileen, I am your cousin. I am to serve as your lady’s maid and companion. We used to spend our summers together in Edin, do you remember? You were just a babe then.”
A flicker of memory flutters up at the mention of those summers, like a moth to light—then turns to ash and is gone.
“Not clearly, I was so young. But I should like to hear of it, if you will tell me.”
Aileen nods eagerly.
“Of course, m’lady. We will have plenty of time to get reacquainted. But first, we have to ensure you get married.” She reaches up with her hands and pulls the red veil over my face.
The double doors slowly swing open, and the sound of a choir humming fills the air. The bishop walks ahead, followed by Aileen and me.
The coolness is what I notice first.
After the glare and heat of the square, the interior seems to swallow sound and light alike. I step from sun into shadow, and for a heartbeat I can only blink, letting my eyes adjust. The air is different here, heavy with wax and incense.
White walls rise around me, startling in their simplicity.
They are cut through by darker ribs of stone, pale surfaces interrupted by slim black columns like strokes of ink across a page.
The walls are plain in places, washed white as linen, yet the eye keeps catching on richness: veins of colored marble stitched together into patterns.
A low gilt barrier gleams ahead, catching what little light filters down from above.
Then I lift my gaze, and the space unfolds.
The building is not large—not in the way I expected a king’s chapel to be—but it draws upward with such grace that I feel small and unimportant.
The dome above is breathtaking, precise as a cut jewel, its weight borne on massive piers that rise like tree trunks.
Gallery upon gallery circles overhead; walkways and arches interlock like a puzzle.
The sounds return slowly: there are my footsteps, the whisper of fabric against the stone floor, and the distant murmur of a priest’s voice.
I draw a breath and lift my eyes up to the altar.
The moment our eyes meet, the world seems to narrow around us.
I am sure he can’t see much of my face behind the veil, and yet it seems like he is staring straight into my soul.
He’s above me—up the steps, his height—and I have to look up, further than I expected. My body registers it before my mind does: the tilt of my head, the stretch of my throat, the way I get almost dizzy staring up at him.
It isn’t just that he’s handsome, though he is, it’s the presence he carries, a force that reaches for me before I can stop it. I feel its pull, guiding my steps, urging me forward. Somehow I can’t feel the pain in my rib cage anymore.
The tilt of my head makes the veil shift against my skin, and suddenly the air beneath it feels too close, too heavy. My breath quickens, shallow and hot, trapped in the small, enclosed space around my face.
Sweat is beading along my upper lip. My heartbeat pounds louder, faster, climbing up my throat.
I feel small beneath his gaze. When I finally stand before him, he reaches up and slowly lifts the veil from my face.
He studies me slowly, taking me in, and I can see it in his expression—satisfaction, approval, and something darker, more intense. His eyes linger, and the knowledge that he wants me sends a rush of excitement through my veins that makes my legs feel unsteady.
This is it. I was made for him. This is love.
I want to reach up and press my hand to my heart. To stop it from beating so violently. To stop it from cracking and splitting open. But a queen shows no weakness. Of course I’m nervous. Of course my heart is racing.
This is my wedding day—this is love.
Another tooth engages.
Click.