Page 153 of To Touch A Silent Fury
“Can you fix that up, too?” I asked, my voice monotonous.
The tailor nodded. “Of course.”
And he did.
When he had deemed me ready, he left to tend to my groom. I sat on the bed, waiting, as the morning light streamed into theroom. Yet I felt as cold as the marble walls, one kind of prisoner about to walk to another life-long cell.
I had awoken once in the night and stared out the window to see the waxing moon high in the sky. Kallie’s bag would be waiting in the kitchen. I could go, alone. Leave Seth in his tower, leave Hanindred to this family’s mercy. But what life would that be?
There was nothing out there for me, no adventure worth more to me than my loved ones. And now, unbidden, Lang also came to mind. I wanted to know he was alright, that his wretch of a brother hadn’t killed him.
No, whatever I would do next, whatever I had the power to change in this role laid before me, I had to see it through. I would not let my husband hurt my dragon, and I would not let the rest of them hurt my best friend. I had to stay.
Daffinia arrived, a bouquet in her hands. She fell into a curtsy, her face betraying no recollection of our last encounter when she had failed to kill Hanin. “Are you ready?”
I stood, ensuring the many luscious folds of my Mephluan-white dress fell as they should. I was hungry, for no one had brought me breakfast today, yet I would not tell her that. My knee ached as I walked over to her, but I refused to limp. I took the flowers from her, holding them to my chest. My hands barely shook. “I’m ready.”
She led the way, and at this point, if she had poisoned the flowers themselves, I would have seen it as Fate’s touch and allowed that strange escape. My dress was heavy, caging me just as firmly as my groom intended, with no chance of running away. Daffinia maintained a firm pace, and keeping up with her took nearly all of my attention as the pointed shoes pinched my toes and the long train of the dress dragged against the stone.
At the staircase, it was harder still, my dress snagging and catching as I descended. But we reached the foyer, andseveral more ladies' maids filtered to my side, helping to hold the weighted stretch of fabric trailing behind me. Featherlight touches arranged the gauzy veil and untangled a string of white beads by my right cheek.
From here, the path was laid out: a golden runner lining the hall, strewn with flowers, leading to a set of closed doors. The throne room. A room I’d never been in. And now, the home of my defeat.
As they fussed around me, Daffinia spoke low beside me. “Walk along the runner, and the guards will open the doors. When you walk in, there will be three aisles. You walk down the central one. Four men, usually the bride and groom's family members, will walk down the other two. In your case…” I raised an eyebrow as she trailed off. She rolled back her shoulders. “You represent Mephluan, the central muse, and they are the rest of the Five. Stay at the same pace as them. When you get to the front, stand to the left of the priest.”
I repeated the instructions. “Middle lane, walk slow, stand on the left.”
She nodded. “The groom will then enter along the central lane.”
“So there are six.” The words spilled over, a product of my complete lack of sleep.
Daffinia only blinked.
“We represent the Five, then a sixth arrives,” I mused, like the woman I was modelled after.
She looked at me with a faint distaste. “The groom is as the archer from the tale, coming to claim his muse.”
Ah,I thought. That made perfect sense. Even our wedding was a fable of itself.
I stepped across the runner and two of the maids helped me with my train, positioning it perfectly behind me. Ahead, the huge wooden doors loomed twenty feet high, carved withstories of the Sightlands, from Edrin and his flock of beasts, to the whirlpool of Oktorok.
To the left and right, smaller doors, maybe only eight or nine feet apart. Before each, two men stood. On the left, two men I barely recognised. One, I thought I had seen at the ball, and the other was the palest man I’d seen outside of Eavenfold.
On the right, I stiffened. King Braxthorn stood, staring at me impassively. Behind him, a young squire.
If one was supposed to be my own family, of which I had none they could call upon, and the other was supposed to be my groom’s family. Why was Lang not with Braxthorn?
Daffinia was back at the stairs, watching me warily. I beckoned her over, and she approached with no small reluctance.
“My lady?” she asked, her voice curling.
“Where is the prince?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be there? As the groom’s family?”
Her mouth pursed as if she’d just eaten a lemon. “He’s in the infirmary.”
The infirmary. By my blood. Had the guards not put a stop to it? I grabbed Daffinia’s hand. Not for any warmth or need for her reassurance, but I had to know the truth from her weaselly mouth. Duty, pride, and vanity clouded her like a constant mist, the tenets of emotion she clung to. Beneath that, I felt the present, her irritation and jealousy.
“How bad is he?” I asked.
