Which means—
"He's back?" The words come out in an uneven croak. "Devyn. I mean, the king. He came back?"
The maid blinks at me. "Of course, my lady. He returned late last night. He's been in his study since dawn, preparing for the day."
He's alive.
He's here.
He came back.
Something loosens in my chest, something I didn't realize had been wound so tight. I press my hand to my sternum and try to remember how to breathe normally.
"My lady? Are you well? You've gone very pale."
"I'm fine." I push myself upright, ignoring the way the room sways. "Let's get started."
THE NEXT TWO HOURSpass in a blur. I'm bathed, perfumed, powdered. My hair is pinned and curled and arranged into something elaborate that I barely recognize. Makeup hides the shadows under my eyes, making me look like someone who actually slept.
And then there's the dress.
Abigail's dress.
They bring it in on a padded hanger, and for a long moment I just stare. White silk and delicate lace, clearly expensive, clearly beautiful. It's been altered to fit me, but as they help me into it, I can feel where it doesn't quite work. The bodice is slightly too loose. The waist hits half an inch too high. The proportions are wrong for my frame.
This dress was made for someone taller. Someone with honey-blonde hair and a figure like a Renaissance painting.
This dress was made for Abigail.
I'm just the understudy who got shoved into it at the last minute.
"You look beautiful, my lady," the maid says.
I look at my reflection. Dark hair. Violet eyes. A face that doesn't match the dress it's wearing.
I look like a bride. Just not the one this wedding was designed for.
"Thank you," I say, and try to smile.
THE MAID LEADS ME THROUGHhallways I don't recognize, deeper into the estate than I've ever been. We pass through a heavy oak door, down a narrow staircase, and into a passage carved from solid stone.
Underground.
We're going underground.
Okay, Bailey. This is fine. This is totally normal. Brides walk through underground tunnels to their weddings all the time.
My mind starts doing what it always does when I'm nervous.
What if this is a prank? What if there's no wedding, just Devyn waiting to tell me he's changed his mind?
What if this isn't a wedding at all?
What if it's an execution?
The passage curves, and I can see light ahead. Warm, golden light.
We turn the final corner, and—
