Chapter 3 #3
Diana did not look in the mirror. It was still rather odd to see her reflection without the glamour she’d worn her entire adult life. It felt like looking at an entirely different person. She didn’t feel like her reflection and was not sure she ever would.
“Undress, Miss Chester,” Madam Godfrey instructed.
“The gown is there.” She pointed to a pink pile of lace and silk hanging over a chair.
“And I’ll send a girl in to help you in a moment.
Now, Lady Tascott. We must speak about the trousseau.
Let me show you a few items I think particularly necessary.
” Linking her arms together, Madam Godfrey pulled Lady Tascott back into the front area of the shop.
Diana tried not to feel sick. But her stomach would roil, and her cheeks were hot, and her chest would not expand enough with each breath. They came quick and shallow, and she must… she must get ahold of herself.
“I will not marry him,” she whispered. “I will not, I will not, I will not. I’ll find a way.” A mantra to steady her nerves, to beat back the rising panic.
Easy to strip out of her clothes and down to her corset and chemise.
Her clothes seemed to suffocate her. Nothing that a bit of desperate twisting and turning couldn’t fix.
But once she was undressed, she had to touch the gown.
It seemed to laugh at her, and she jumped, yelped, when the shopgirl bustled in with a hearty greeting.
“Sorry to scare you, miss,” she said. “I’m Gabby.”
“It is nothing. I’m tired. Can we do this quickly?”
“Certainly.”
And they did, and Diana tried not to look at herself in the mirror as the shopgirl helped her onto the platform.
“Hm.” Gabby pinched a bit of fabric at the gown’s waist. “A bit too loose about the middle and the bust. Too long as well. But we’ll fix that.
I’ll fetch Madam Godfrey.” She curtsied and stepped into the front room, closing the door behind her.
“Oh! Lord Fordham. Your bride will be pleased to see you.” Gabby’s voice was close but muffled.
So was Apollo’s. “Do you know where my mother is?”
Her groom had arrived for the fitting. Marvelous. Diana’s palms began to burn, to sweat, and the back of her neck prickled.
Diana stared at the ceiling, clenching her fists slightly away from her body so she didn’t touch the silk, didn’t touch the lace.
The concoction felt like chain mail—heavy, the sort of stuff worn into battle.
And she’d have to battle sooner than later, show herself in this to Apollo today.
See his cold disinterest, the open animosity in his gaze.
She could run. Surely the door behind her led to an alley.
No. No running. Not yet. Be brave, Diana.
Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her arms, her shoulders, and let her gaze drift to the mirror.
Best to see herself before he did, to be prepared when he sneered.
The sleeves were at least five times the size of her actual arms and threatened the sovereignty of her ears, and the lace about her feet was so thick it might tangle with her groom’s legs.
The ribbon nipping in her waist was a slightly darker shade of pink, and it erupted into a plentiful bow nestled above her backside.
Not at all what she would have chosen. An unwanted wedding gown for an unwanted wedding.
She squeezed her eyes tightly closed to beat back the sorrow building there.
She must think of something else or it would drown her.
Something like… what she would wear if she wanted her wedding, if she were marrying a man she’d chosen instead of one forced on her in a deathbed promise.
It would be a blue gown. With green embroidery.
Much smaller sleeves, no matter how stylish these were.
It would be simple and soft and would not strangle her neck, either.
Like a ball gown, the neckline would be low, and her groom would stare at her limited cleavage as Lord Knightly had stared at it last night. With poorly guarded enthusiasm.
The love potion worked.
That beat back the tears, and she was able to open her eyes.
She gasped. Her image in the mirror had changed. Gone the pink and ribbons and lace. Instead, she wore the gown of her vision. Blue and simple, green and soft, her bosom on display.
Her palms glowed, light seeping past the thin leather of her gloves, and her cheeks burned red as roses.
Oh. Oh no. She’d lost control. She’d glamoured the gown.
If they saw… Oh, God, if they saw, they’d know, and then instead of a wedding, a hanging would be in her future.
A woman who’d inherited transcendent magic.
Impossible. Illegal, no doubt, once they—anyone—knew it could happen.
And if they didn’t hang her, they’d study her, find out how she’d stolen it.
Stolen it. That’s what they would say. They’d label her a thief. Then the gallows.
Every path led that hanging way.
“Come on,” she hissed, willing the green to dissolve, the pink to reappear.
But she’d not been able to control it, not once in the six months since the cursed stuff had slipped from her grandfather’s dying body and into her frame.
Bypassing Apollo entirely. “Come on. Turn pink, turn pink! Turn pink!”
The gown turned pink.
Relief flew through her. She almost hit her knees.
And a gasp, low and deadly, stopped her heart.
“Diana?” Apollo stood in the doorway, his blue eyes bloodshot and flashing. “Did you just… How did you…?”
“I did not.” She stepped down from the podium, tripping when she misjudged the height.
“Your gown…”
“No.” She righted herself, her veins ice, each breath murder to pull in.
“I saw it.” His gaze floated over her gown, as if searching out the green, searching for an answer to the impossible. “How did you—”
“I didn’t mean to.” Please, oh please, he had to believe her.
His head popped up. Shock gone. Anger only in the stone of his jaw. “How long have you been like this?” He stalked toward her with slow, powerful strides. The sour scent of alcohol hung about him.
She shook her head, backing away. “Since grandfather—”
“Since he died?” He didn’t have to raise his voice for her to hear the promise of violence there.
She nodded, choking back a sob. Caught, caught. Oh, God. “Apollo, you must not tell anyone. You must—”
“You have what is mine.” Still he stalked after her.
And still she backed away, the ground lurching beneath her feet. “I know, I know. I did not mean—”
“I want it back.”
“I would give it to you if I could. I have been researching ways. Nothing but dead ends, but I will find a way. I swear it.” Her back hit the wall, stealing her breath. Nowhere to run now. No escape.
“Dead ends.” He threw his head back and loosed a mirthless laugh, the sour smell of stale ale reeking from between his lips. “There is only one way.”
Yes, she knew well.
“No, Apollo, please.” The tears she’d been fighting came so easily now, flowing freely as her body trembled.
His eyes wild, he pinned her against the wall. His hands clawed around her arms. “There’s only one way.”