Chapter 26 #2
But it was his expression that made her breath catch. The way he looked at her—like she was the only person in a crowd of hundreds, like the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.
"You're so beautiful." His voice came out rough, almost reverent. "Marigold, you're—"
"Don't." She could feel herself blushing, the heat climbing up her neck. "You'll make me nervous."
"You're already nervous." He closed the distance between them, his hands finding her waist with familiar ease. "I can tell by the way you're holding your breath."
"I'm not—" She realized she was, in fact, holding her breath, and let it out in a rush. "Fine. I'm terrified. There are so many people, and the dance is in an hour, and what if I trip, or forget the steps, or—"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His thumb traced circles against her hip, grounding her. "I've watched you practice. I've held you while you danced. You know these steps better than you know your own name."
"That's not—"
"And even if you did trip." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Even if you forgot every step we've ever practiced. I would catch you. I would guide you. And no one watching would know anything had gone wrong, because all they'd see is two people who fit together perfectly."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to point out all the ways things could go wrong, all the potential disasters lurking in the shadows of the beautiful setup surrounding them.
But he was looking at her with such certainty. Such faith.
I choose you.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. Let's do this."
The morning passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments and small crises that somehow resolved themselves.
A vendor whose tent had collapsed. A child who wandered away from her parents and was found happily petting the goats in the adjacent petting zoo.
A brief shortage of cups at the lemonade stand, remedied by a quick trip to the general store.
Through it all, she moved with a focus she hadn't known she possessed.
This was what she was good at—the logistics, the problem-solving, the quiet competence of making things work.
She barely noticed the crowd growing, the music starting up from various corners of the grounds, the smell of roasting meat and spun sugar filling the air.
But she noticed when Silas appeared.
He stood at the edge of the wine-tasting booth—Thallos's booth—looking uncomfortable in a way that was almost satisfying.
Whatever had passed between the brothers the night of their confrontation had clearly changed something.
Silas wasn't prowling around like a predator anymore. He was… hovering. Uncertain.
Thallos, pouring samples for a group of enthusiastic women, caught her eye and gave a small nod. It's fine, the gesture seemed to say. He's behaving.
She wasn't entirely convinced, but she had bigger things to worry about. Specifically, the opening ceremony that was now thirty minutes away.
She found a quiet corner behind the main stage, pressing her back against the wooden support beam and focusing on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Lila had taught her months ago, back when panic attacks were a regular occurrence.
"Hiding?"
She opened her eyes to find Winnie Sanderson regarding her with knowing amusement.
"Preparing," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"Of course there is, dear." Winnie settled beside her, adjusting her flowing purple skirt. "I used to do the same thing before every performance. Tell myself I was 'preparing' when really I just needed a moment to remember how to breathe."
"You performed?"
"Decades ago. Voice like a nightingale, or so I was told." Winnie’s smile turned nostalgic. "Before I realized my true talents lay elsewhere. But that's neither here nor there. I came to give you something."
She pressed a small object into Marigold's palm—a smooth stone, roughly oval, shot through with veins of copper and gold, on a thin cord.
"It's a grounding stone. Blessed by the grove, years ago. It won't make you brave—nothing can do that except you—but it will remind you that your feet are planted on solid earth. That you belong exactly where you are."
She slipped the bracelet around her wrist, the stone warm against her skin, warmer than it should have been from Eleanor's hand alone.
"Thank you," she said, meaning it. "But why—I mean, we've barely spoken. Why would you—"
"Because I see how you look at him." Winnie’s eyes, sharp despite her age, met hers with unexpected intensity.
"And how he looks at you. That boy has been waiting for someone like you for a very long time.
He needs someone who'll stay. Someone who'll choose him when it's hard, not just when it's easy. "
"I'm not—"
"You are. Whether you know it yet or not." Winnie patted her arm and began to move away. "Now go out there and dance. The whole town is waiting."
The opening ceremony started exactly on time.
She stood at the edge of the dance floor, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain everyone could hear it. The crowd had gathered in a wide circle around the polished wooden stage—hundreds of faces, familiar and strange, all turned expectantly toward the center.
The string quartet began to play, a slow introduction that would build into the dance's proper rhythm. Across the floor, she could see Thallos waiting for her, his hand extended, his eyes never leaving her face.
Move, she told herself. Just move.
Her feet carried her forward without conscious thought. The dress swirled around her knees, sage green against the golden wood. The grounding stone pressed against her wrist, a small point of warmth and stability.
And then his hand was in hers, and none of it mattered anymore.
The music swelled. He drew her close, one hand firm against her back, the other clasping her fingers with gentle certainty. She could feel the heat of him, smell the wine and earth and that distinctive musk that had become as familiar as her own heartbeat.
"Ready?" he murmured.
"No."
"Good." His smile was wicked and tender all at once. "Neither am I."
They began to dance.
For the first few steps, she was still aware of the crowd—the watching eyes, the whispered comments, the weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders.
Her feet moved through the patterns they'd practiced, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed, but there was a stiffness to her movements that she couldn't seem to shake.
And then he spun her, bringing her back into his arms with a flourish that made her gasp—and something shifted.
She stopped thinking.
The dance became what it had always been in their private practices: a conversation. His body spoke to hers through touch and movement, guiding without commanding, responding to every small shift of her weight. When she leaned, he caught her. When he advanced, she retreated in perfect complement.
They wove through the choreographed steps, but it didn't feel choreographed anymore. It felt like flying. Like falling. Like the most natural thing in the world.
The music built toward its crescendo, and she found herself laughing—actually laughing, joy bubbling up from some deep place she'd forgotten existed. His answering grin was brilliant, transforming his sharp features into something almost boyish.
The final turn. The dip. His arms cradling her, her back arched, the world spinning around her in a blur of color and sound—
And then stillness.
For one perfect moment, they held the pose, her body suspended in his embrace, their breath mingling in the space between them. The music faded. The crowd erupted into applause.
But she barely heard it. All she could see was his face, inches from her own, his golden eyes soft with something that looked like wonder.
"You were magnificent," he said quietly, for her ears alone.
"We were," she corrected, and watched his expression shift into something deeper, something that made her chest ache with the truth of it.
He lifted her upright, keeping hold of her hand as they faced the cheering crowd and took their bow. Somewhere in the audience, she could see Daisy dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief—probably silk, probably designer, definitely leaving mascara stains.
Lila was whooping enthusiastically from near the lemonade stand. The Sanderson sisters were applauding with dignified approval. Even Silas, lurking at the back of the crowd, gave a slow, grudging nod.
They had done it.
She had done it.
The rest of the day unfolded like a dream.
She drifted through the festival in a haze of happiness, greeting vendors and troubleshooting minor issues and accepting compliments that made her blush and stammer.
The opening dance had broken something loose in her—some wall she hadn't even realized she'd been hiding behind—and for the first time in memory, she felt like she actually belonged somewhere.
Not hiding in the corner. Not managing from the shadows.
Present.
She danced with Lila to the folk band that took over after the string quartet, laughing as her best friend led her through increasingly ridiculous spins.
She sampled cheese until she was slightly dizzy from the varieties—aged cheddar and creamy brie and something blue-veined and pungent that made her eyes water.
She watched children chase each other through the hay-bale maze, their shrieks of joy echoing across the vineyard.
She helped an elderly woman find a seat when the walking became too much, and accepted a pressed flower bookmark in return.
She ate a funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar and didn't care when it covered her dress in white fingerprints.
And through it all, she was aware of Thallos.
He moved through the festival like a conductor through an orchestra, managing the chaos with effortless charm.
She'd catch glimpses of him—pouring wine for a group of tourists, laughing with one of the farmers from the outskirts of town, lifting a child onto his shoulders so she could see the puppet show.
Every now and then, their eyes would meet across the crowd, and she'd feel it like a physical touch. A promise. A reminder.
This is real. This is ours. We built this.
As afternoon faded into evening, the paper lanterns flickered to life one by one, turning the vineyard into something out of a fairy tale. The crowd began to shift toward the central stage, drawn by the warm glow and the promise of evening entertainment.
She found a spot near the front, her mother beside her—Daisy had been surprisingly unobtrusive all day, helping where she was needed and not making everything about herself—and watched as the various performers took their turns.
The folk band played another set. A group of local children performed a choreographed routine that was more enthusiasm than coordination. A storyteller wove tales of the town's history, her voice rich and dramatic in the lantern-light.
And then the stage was empty.
A murmur ran through the crowd. This wasn't on the schedule—there was supposed to be another band, a jazz trio from two towns over. She pulled out her phone to check her notes, wondering what had gone wrong.
But then movement caught her eye. Thallos was climbing the stage steps, something tucked under his arm. Something she'd never seen him carry before.
A fiddle.
The instrument was old—she could tell from where she stood, the worn wood and weathered strings of something that had been played thousands of times. He settled it against his shoulder with the easy familiarity of long practice, the bow finding its place in his right hand.
But he didn't begin to play.
Instead, he looked out at the crowd—at her—and for just a moment, she saw something vulnerable beneath the confident facade. Something uncertain. Something afraid.
He's going to play, she realized. After everything. After all these years.
He was choosing vulnerability.
For her.
The night air hung suspended, the crowd hushed with expectation. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting dancing shadows across Thallos's face.
He raised the bow.
And began to play.