Queen of Shattered Dreams

8 - The Wedding

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My stomach sinks as a servant puts a bouquet of white lilies and roses into my hand. So many servants bustle about me working on my face, my dress, my hair, and now I suppose, my ornaments. I've stopped looking at them or even speaking. They have a job to do, just as I have mine.

The stems of my bouquet are bound in white silk. I feel as though I'm bound much the same—white silk, an intricate design. It's sewn in across the top and down the sleeves of my wedding gown, traveling all the way to the beginning of my fingers, then resuming from my waist to the floor. A sheer train is gathered and held by two small girls, some distant relations I'm sure. Still more lilies have been stabbed into place within my hair, pulled and curled and held so tightly that my head already aches and I haven't even taken my first step down the aisle.

And what an aisle! It will be a miracle if I make it to the front of the cathedral without fainting from exhaustion.

My breath catches with a wave of nausea. I'm now surrounded by the unpleasant stench of the lilies. But that isn't the only thing making me feel sick. I'm drowning in white but all I can think of is the blood of the thief and the contempt of the king. In the days leading up to this moment, the king was solicitous, coming daily for a walk or tea in the drawing room. But how can I forget the malice in his eyes, the harshness of his tone? He was angry with me, angry enough to kill a man right in front of me.

I shift beneath the weight of my wedding gown and think of the queen--the former queen—landing in the water. Even if she had survived the fall, her gown surely would have dragged her underwater. Had the king killed her? He's certainly capable of it. And what had been her offense?

I rub at my mending wrist, the bruises almost completely faded now, but the memory of how he grabbed it remains. And now I am to be his for the rest of my life, however long that may be. I take in a breath, remembering at once about the lilies and shut my eyes against the dizziness. I cannot bear this much longer and it hasn't officially begun. Maybe the former queen killed herself, unable to live from day to day in fear of the king's next outburst.

The organ begins to play. I straighten my shoulders, steel my nerves and take the first step.

There's a rush of fabric as lords and ladies rise to their feet and turn to face me. My eyes are on the ground, afraid to see their expressions. Joy, pity—jealousy? My friends will certainly not be here. Least of all, Alfrid. But what if he is? I raise my eyes, scanning the faces now for any familiar ones and try to conceal the fear and insecurity coursing through me. I hardly know anyone here. A few names and titles I know, but no allies.

Though I attempt to avoid faces, I find it's in vain. My eyes dart from one to the next. Smiles, scowls—pity. But none friendly and known. Somehow I fear it would be worse to meet their eyes and in this one thing, I am spared.

Feodor stands at the front. The priest is just behind the altar, ready to bind my life with the king's, to ensure my fealty not only as a citizen of Direwood, but as his wife.

Left foot. Right foot. I repeat over and over to avoid thinking of what happens after the vows.

Mother stands at her place in the front row to the left, her hands clasped in front of her—a tight, apologetic smile on her lips. Her expression will never be enough to undo this. All her years of scheming for a favorable marriage for me has brought me here—the path of least possible happiness. I force my eyes away without so much as an acknowledgment that she is my mother.

The room is oppressively warm, so many bodies would certainly heat this great hall even in winter. A trickle of sweat slides down the back of my neck. I grip the flowers fiercely, swallowing a gasp as thorns prick my palm through the fabric. Someone must have forgotten to strip them. I squeeze tighter, allowing the sting to distract me.