12. Evangeline
Evangeline
Evangeline took a long, deep breath to calm her racing nerves as music began to drift through the window: ethereal harp trills followed by the warm, deep notes of a cello.
This was it. In a few short minutes, she would be Mrs. Luc Navarro. Unlike his mother, Luc was not a particularly big fan of weddings, so his one insistence was that the ceremony be quick.
Evangeline’s skirts swished around her shaking legs as she started toward the door. Weddings were to dreams as sugar was to cake: So many girls’ dreams were made of them. Dreams of dresses and flowers and kisses and fabled happily ever afters. And now it was her chance to live inside that dream.
“Ready?” asked a deep voice from the other side. A very familiar voice.
Evangeline opened the door.
Standing there in a freshly pressed suit, with the widest, proudest smile on his face and a white flower in his pocket, was her father, Maximilian Fox.
A sudden happiness eclipsed everything else inside her. Evangeline was fairly certain her father was complimenting her dress, but for a second she couldn’t hear anything. All she could do was feel. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I think those are supposed to wait for the ceremony.” Her father reached out to offer her his handkerchief.
Evangeline took the cloth and carefully dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just so happy to see you.” She hugged her father tightly, crying more than she would have expected.
She had never understood why people cried at weddings. Weddings were lace-coated days where the air was made of sparkling wine. They were happy things. Celebrations. But now, she realized, these were also the days when emotions came to the surface and collided.
Her father patted her back. “Luc will take good care of you. I would have never given him my blessing otherwise.” Her father offered her his arm. “Ready?”
Evangeline reached out to take it, but then she hesitated. The feeling from before was back. Something was missing.
“Is something wrong?” her father asked.
“Yes—I mean, no. My head is just a little muddled today.”
Her father patted her arm. “You’re supposed to be nervous on days like today.
I was so nervous when I married your mother, I showed up a full day early.
” His gray eyes crinkled at the corners as his expression turned wistful.
“I suppose it’s better than a full day late, although I like to think your mother would have waited.
” He paused for a second before stepping into the garden. “Some loves are like that.”
“Willing to wait?”
“Willing to believe despite what they see.” His eyes seemed to ask if that was the sort of love she felt for Luc. If she stepped outside and Luc wasn’t there, would she search for him? Or would she take it to mean he’d changed his mind?
And suddenly Evangeline was nervous again because she wasn’t sure what her answer would be. The entire walk down the stairs, her heart pounded like a drum.
Thankfully, when the doors to her mother’s garden opened, Luc was there, under the gazebo, resplendent and handsome and waiting for her. And she knew in that moment that yes, she would have waited for him, too.
The music picked up as Evangeline took her first step into the garden.
Garlands of her mother’s flowers hung from above, raining down petals as she walked, covering the ground in a soft dusting of white and violet and pink.
Every guest stood. Evangeline heard oohs and ahhs and saw smiles on faces—except for one.
The young man tossing the white apple.
He appeared to be even more dissolute up close. As Evangeline passed, she saw that his striped shirt was wrinkled, his golden hair messy. His too-bright blue eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth twisted down at the corner as if he didn’t enjoy much and he absolutely hated being here.
Why had Marisol brought him? Marisol was so proper, and this young man appeared to be anything but.
He was still tossing his apple, long fingers throwing it distractingly high in the air before catching it without even looking.
Instead, his eyes were on Evangeline—blue and unearthly—and then he flashed a dimple.
Her cheeks heated. It was just a dimple. It should not have made her blush. But now he was smiling. And it was truly an unfair smile. Too beautiful for a face so cruel.
Another dimple appeared on his ruthlessly handsome face. Then she heard the young man whisper, low and indolent, “Why are you marrying that fool?”
She snapped out of his spell and gave him the most scolding look she was capable of.
She couldn’t believe Marisol wasn’t mortified. In fact, no one else was reacting to his words. His voice was so low she must have been the only one to hear him, and suddenly she was determined not to react either.
Evangeline quickened her steps as she continued down the aisle.
Rose petals clung to her feet as she walked.
In her head, it had seemed so romantic to go down the aisle in bare feet, but now she felt oddly foolish.
Or maybe it was just him. The degenerate boy with the beautiful eyes.
No, not beautiful—the intense blue was unnatural.
She wondered then if he was not quite human.
Until she realized she was thinking about him too much. She needed to think about Luc.
Luc looked more handsome than ever. He was dressed in pale blue and gold, and his dark hair was combed back, although it was so unruly that a lock of it fell over one eye as he watched her step closer. He looked as eager as a puppy.
Evangeline frowned at the thought. She did not want to think of her groom as a puppy.
But he was rather puppylike, energetic and excitable and easy to love.
Luc was the opposite of the young man with the apple, who looked as if nothing would ever please him.
Evangeline could no longer see him, yet she could still feel his displeasure.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t turn around.
She turned around.
He was watching her. Of course he was; everyone was. It was her wedding. But there was an intent in his eyes. She couldn’t see what he was thinking, but she had a feeling that he was not wishing her and Luc a happily ever after.
He took a step away from his seat into the aisle, as if he was about to leave.
Don’t go, Evangeline thought. Then, of course, she tried to unthink it.
This really wasn’t supposed to be how she was feeling during her wedding—except it was.
She was supposed to be having these feelings about Luc.
She should have been unable to look away from Luc, unable to stop thinking about Luc.
Instead, Evangeline was staring into impossibly blue eyes that made her think love was supposed to feel like falling off cliffs and drowning in feelings or being shot through with arrows that went straight to your heart.
She needed to turn away. But then the young man took another step down the aisle toward her, still tossing his shiny white apple.
“I’d like to propose a toast before the ceremony begins.” This time, he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. His voice was low and musical. Disarming. And suddenly everyone was looking at him, just as mesmerized as Evangeline was.
Luc must have been right about this young man being the former heir to the throne.
Yet it felt like more than that. He hadn’t just commanded everyone’s attention: His very presence seemed to have changed the air around them.
Seconds ago, the afternoon had felt garden-sweet and soft. Now it felt charged, electric.
Flower petals swirled around the young man’s leather boots as he took another decisive step toward Evangeline. “Everyone, please, take a goblet.”
“I—I don’t think this is the right time,” she stammered. But no one in the crowd was paying attention to her. Every single eye was on him.
Evangeline turned to Luc for help, but he was already accepting one of the goblets that Marisol was now passing out, a wide smile on her face.
Evangeline hadn’t been to many weddings, but she knew this wasn’t how they normally went. She also didn’t particularly like the syrup-sweet scent coming from the goblets. It made her think of peaches and berries left out to rot.
“Please, don’t—”
“Shhh—this is the best part.” The young man pressed his white apple against her mouth, silencing her protests.
The fruit was cold against her lips, and it didn’t taste like any of the apples she was familiar with.
It was all metal and blood, sweet and dazzling, and suddenly Evangeline was elsewhere.
She was in a dark carriage. Instead of an apple, a cold dagger was pressed to her lips, and he was the one holding it there. He was sitting across from her, now dressed like a debauched stable boy.
Evangeline didn’t know what was happening. And why did he keep pressing things to her mouth?
She closed her eyes, trying to erase the unsettling vision and the closeness of his fingers to her lips, but this only made it feel more real.
She felt the jolt of uneven cobblestones as the carriage rumbled forward, the gooseflesh rising on her arms, the breath trapped in her chest as he held his dagger to her lips.
She wondered again if this young man wasn’t entirely human.
Evangeline had not seen much evidence of magic outside of her father’s curiosity shop, but she had faith that magic existed. Her father had always spoken of magic as if it were real, and her mother had been from the Magnificent North, where fairytales were part of history.
This young man made her think of a broken fairytale, one Evangeline couldn’t quite remember but she had a horrible feeling it didn’t end well.
She closed her eyes once more, and when she opened them, she was back in her mother’s garden. The apple was still pressed hard against her lips as the young man finished his toast and urged everyone to drink.
“No!” On instinct, Evangeline darted forward and shoved the goblet from Luc’s hand.
“Eva, what in—” Luc broke off as the rest of the wedding went eerily quiet. All the movement, the rustling, the breathing, the lips smacking glasses, the muttered words, stopped.
Evangeline turned away from Luc in horror to see that everyone had gone still as statues, goblets held out as if they’d just been taken from their lips. No one moved. Luc’s friends, his parents, the minister, Evangeline’s father—all of them were frozen.
Evangeline darted back to her father. “No, no, no—” she cried, taking his arm. He still felt warm, but he didn’t react to her touch. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He just stood there, his smile turning disturbing as it remained fixed on his face. Evangeline shook his arm with both of her hands.
“Ahh, I wouldn’t do that, pet.”
Evangeline whirled toward the sound of the young man’s voice. Her vision blurred with tears, turning the garden into a smear of colors, yet somehow he was as sharp as ever. “What have you done?”
The young man brought his apple to his mouth and took a deep, slow bite that left dark red juice all over the pale tips of his fingers. “Why would you assume this is me?”
“You just made everyone toast and—you shouldn’t be here!” she screamed.
His mouth twitched at the corner as if her anger amused him. “I was invited.” He took another bite before dropping his apple to the ground, where it left a trail of red as it rolled down the petal-covered aisle to Marisol.
More dark red juice splashed onto Marisol’s yellow skirts, but she didn’t move either. Her pale hands hung limply at her sides, her mouth slightly agape.
Evangeline felt sick, her stomach twisting at the tableau before her.
Then Marisol took a shuddering breath. She wasn’t frozen, just shocked.
“Oh, Marisol,” Evangeline cried. “I’m so glad you’re all right!”
“You shouldn’t be,” drawled the young man. “This was all her idea.”
Marisol wouldn’t meet Evangeline’s eyes. The only person she looked at was Luc, but Marisol couldn’t seem to hold his gaze either. Her eyes darted around the frozen faces as she cried, “No—no, this wasn’t me!”
The young man gave her a scolding look. “You were crying on the steps of my church, bemoaning your sad existence and begging me to ruin a wedding.” His voice turned mocking as he turned back to Luc and Evangeline. “You wouldn’t believe the things she promised me.”
Marisol’s face went bright red. Guilty red. She kept shaking her head and wringing her hands. Hands that, unlike those of the other wedding guests, were not holding a goblet.
Luc looked at her with something like terror. “You did this?”
“No—I didn’t—I didn’t want all of this,” Marisol sputtered, lips trembling.
But all Evangeline could see was Marisol, handing out the goblets with a wide smile.
Evangeline’s anger turned to numbness as she tried to make sense of it.
She and Marisol had never been close. Evangeline’s father had been married to Marisol’s mother for such a short time before she’d died.
And then after her death, Marisol had retreated into books and craftwork and quiet corners of the house.
Perhaps Evangeline should have tried harder to pull her out of her shell, but that still didn’t explain Marisol’s horrific actions. “Why would you do this?”
Marisol shook her head, as if preparing to object again. But as she looked at Evangeline, the red in her face began to turn splotchy, shifting from guilt to something like rage.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she spat. “Your life is so perfect. But I have nothing. I have no one.”
“How does this change that?” Evangeline waved an angry hand toward the frozen guests. Unblinking. Unmoving. Evangeline didn’t even know how it was possible to do this to a person. People didn’t just stop moving. She didn’t think they were dead, but they also didn’t seem to be very alive.
“I already told you—I didn’t want all of this. I just wanted him to kiss you!” Marisol turned her ugly expression toward her date.
He shrugged an insouciant shoulder, as if Marisol were about as threatening as the flies buzzing around the goblets and then dropping to the ground after taking a sip. “You should have been more specific,” he said. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you about making deals with Fates?”
“You’re a Fate?” Evangeline breathed, and suddenly she understood how it could be possible that everyone had ceased to move.
He smiled then, flashing one of those deceptive dimples. “People who don’t like me call me Jacks.”