Chapter 35 Apis et Lepus
APIS ET LEPUS
“So, Mira,” the woman said, her attention fully on me.
“Tell me about the wedding. Formal or casual? Destination or local? Indoor or outdoor?” The bridal consultant—Sylvia—a tall, elegant woman with silver hair and a serene energy—settled us into plush seating area and placed flutes of chilled champagne into our hands.
Anne had made an appointment for dress shopping at a boutique in downtown Boston as soon as I said I was coming, pulling significant strings to make it happen on such short notice.
Sylvia gave me her complete, undivided attention, as though I—and my wedding—were the only things on her schedule that day.
“It's going to be small. On the Isle of Arran, in Scotland. A destination wedding for these two,” I said, motioning toward Anne and Dillon, who had drifted to a rack of dresses and were murmuring to one another.
Clearly, they already had ideas about what I should wear.
“I'm originally from Boston, but I live there now—with my fiancé, Baird.” Even after weeks to let it sink in, the word still sent a shiver of excitement down my spine.
Thinking of him tugged at something deep inside me—an invisible thread pulled taut by distance. I'd barely been apart from him since returning to Arran, his presence settling into my life like a second pulse, the me slowly, willingly subsumed by an us that felt destined. Inevitable.
The ache deepened without warning. I turned away before the sting in my eyes could betray me, missing him with an intensity I felt in my body—and mourning, all at once, the absence of my parents, who should have been here for this moment.
I pressed my hand to my chest, breathed through the tightness, and forced the emotions back into their proper place.
“Dillon is going to walk me down the aisle, and Anne”—I glanced toward them as Anne gestured animatedly, shaking her head, her distaste for the enormous ballgown Dillon was holding unmistakable—“will be my maid of honor…just her. Like I said…a small wedding.” I smiled, trying to find a way to make Sylvia see the picture as clearly as I did.
“The ceremony will be in a summer house on the grounds of Brodick Castle, and the reception on the terrace, overlooking the gardens.” The place had claimed me the moment I first walked its paths—as if it had been waiting, patient and certain, for me to arrive.
I remembered looking back from the gardens to the castle the first time I'd visited, imagining fairy lights at twilight and soft music, and feeling as though the scene I'd dreamed up belonged to someone else.
But maybe—just maybe—I hadn't been imagining at all. Maybe I'd been glimpsing the future.
My future.
Warmth spread through me, my breath loosening, my pulse steadying, as if my body had known the truth long before my mind allowed it: my gift of sight had been at work all along, guiding me.
In moments like this, the distance I'd once felt—from the world, from men I'd dated, even from myself—threw the connection I felt now into sharp relief.
I hadn't been whole until I learned to trust my true self, accepted my gift.
And in return a greater gift took root and blossomed within my body: Brigid's power, steady and patient, just beneath my skin—though I still questioned why me.
“That sounds beautiful, Mira,” she said, her hand warm and steady against mine—a touch that should have felt too familiar, but didn't. Sylvia seemed to have a way of sensing exactly how much reassurance a bride needed, and at that moment, I needed more than I wanted to admit.
“Any must-haves?” she asked softly. “Or silhouettes I should stay away from before I start pulling dresses?”
Anne's voice carried across the boutique. “Absolutely not.”
Sylvia and I shared a look and turned in unison toward the source—Dillon frozen, another ballgown in hand, Anne already shaking her head.
I pulled myself away from the unfolding scene and turned my attention back to Sylvia.
“I'm drawn to lace—something that feels a little bohemian,” I said.
“Flowers in my hair instead of a veil. And I'll be wearing an emerald pendant, so I'll need a neckline that lets it be seen.” I shrugged, unsure I could give more guidance than that.
I'd never been one of those girls that had all the details of her wedding planned years in advance, and I'd started to wonder if my two best friends had been doing the dreaming for me.
I leaned closer and added softly, “But bring in a ballgown.
If Dillon doesn't get his moment, I'll never hear the end of it.”
With a knowing wink Sylvia set to work, directing a second consultant as dresses disappeared toward the fitting rooms—lace, tulle, satin passing in soft waves. When she returned, I was still on the couch, champagne cool in my hand, my pulse ticking just a little faster. “Ready?”
The first dress was the sacrificial ballgown, worn only so it could be ruled out.
It was stunning—heavy satin, beaded bodice, sweetheart neckline, an enormous train—but the weight of it pressed down on me.
A dress for a princess in a cathedral, not for the rustic wooden structure overlooking Brodick Bay.
Sylvia walked ahead of me, silently announcing my arrival. Both Dillon and Anne fell quiet as I stepped into the viewing area and onto the small platform. I lowered my hands, letting the full skirt fall into place for maximum effect, then looked to my friends for a reaction.
Anne smiled sweetly, but the tight set of her jaw betrayed her. She knew—correctly—that this silhouette was all wrong for me. And Dillon, who had wanted so badly for this to be the dress, sagged as the truth reached him.
“Fine,” he said at last. “It's wearing you. Not the other way around. Anne is right, as usual.” I laughed as Dillon raised the white flag, the look of defeat unmistakable.
Anne's face relaxed, reassured now that I wasn't in love with the dress. “It's overwhelming you,” she said. “All I see is the dress.”
Satisfied that we were all on the same page—at least where ruling out the ballgown was concerned—I gathered the billowing skirt in my hands and returned to the dressing room.
The next thirty minutes blurred into a procession of dresses: sleek sheath gowns that clung too tightly, A-line skirts that felt overly polite, long sleeves that weighed me down, strapless bodices that left me cold.
One by one, they were stripped away, wrong for reasons I couldn't always name.
But when I stepped into a trumpet silhouette, the lines finally made sense—enough that Sylvia and her companion exchanged a look before heading back to the racks to pull a second round.
When they returned a few minutes later, my gaze went straight to the dress on the top of the stack.
Intricately embroidered ivory lace lay over a nude lining, the pattern almost alive beneath the boutique lights.
The entire stack was beautiful—Chantilly lace, soft beading, moiré satin—but something about the first dress made everything else fall away.
A tingling warmth flooded my body when I reached out to touch it, my fingers brushing the delicate detail as my hand trembled slightly, my newfound magic stirring beneath my skin as I examined it.
“The lace on this one is truly special,” Sylvia said offhand as she unzipped the gown and slipped it from its padded satin hanger. “It just felt like you,” she said simply. “We only received it yesterday.” She paused, studying it thoughtfully. “You're the first bride to try it on.”
My heart began to pound the moment I stepped into the dress, Sylvia held the bodice open as I slid my arms through.
When she zipped it up, the gown settled against me like a second skin, light and fluid, moving easily when I breathed.
The neckline plunged into a clean V, sleeveless and elegant, while the lace overlay traced my curves—skimming my waist, following the line of my hips—before releasing into soft gussets mid-thigh that let the skirt fall and flow to the floor.
A modest train fanned out behind me, just enough to whisper against the ground.
“The style is called Flora and Fauna,” Sylvia said. “If you look closely at the hand-embroidered accents, you'll see plants—leaves, vines—along with insects and butterflies. Very Queen of the Fairies vibe.”
I exhaled and took one last look at myself before stepping out of the dressing room, asking myself the question I already knew the answer to.
Then something caught my eye. I stopped mid-step and leaned closer to the mirror, the room narrowing until there was nothing but the embroidery near the neckline.
A bee.
My hand flew to my mouth—it wasn't my imagination.
It was stitched there, deliberate and unmistakable.
Tears welled and spilled over, tracking hot and sudden down my cheeks.
A reminder from the universe—blatant, unnecessary, and devastating all the same—of the day Baird proposed.
Of the honey bees that had gathered on my hand and arm after he slid the ring onto my finger.
I wiped my tears away quickly, careful not to let them fall onto the lace, the fingers of my other hand trembling as I ran them lightly over the fabric—this dress that somehow already knew my story.
When I walked into the viewing area, two sharp inhales greeted me—both Dillon and Anne momentarily speechless.
I stepped onto the platform and turned slowly, studying myself from every angle the wraparound mirrors allowed.
Sylvia said something quietly and nodded to her assistant, who crossed to a nearby cabinet and returned with a flower crown—silk instead of fresh flowers, but strikingly close to what I'd imagined.
She placed it on my head, and I couldn't envision any other adornment with this dress. Simply perfect.
I let my mind wander, envisioning Baird's reaction, seeing me for the first time in this dress, half-listening as Sylvia explained the unique stitching on the lace to Anne and Dillon, until Anne tilted her head and went still.
“Wait,” she said softly. “What's this on the train?” She stood and stepped closer for a better look.
I turned, craning to see over my shoulder, and my breath left me when my eyes found it—not decorative, not playful, but deliberate. A rabbit, embroidered in the same shimmering silver-gold thread as the bee, the focal point at the very center of the train.
Something tender gripped hard in my chest.
The universe, it seemed, had remembered Bunny too.