Tomorrow, she’s going to be mine. A punishment that the Council has given me, cloaked in terms that look like a reward.She's a job. A duty. A cell I've been locked into. And I don’t know how to be what she needs. Don't know how to be gentle or kind or patient. Don't know how to make this anything other than what it is—a cage for both of us.
When I look at the clock some time later, I see that it’s three in the morning. Three hours until dawn, seven until the wedding. Until I become a husband, a word that I never thought would apply to me.
I toss back the whiskey and go to take a cold shower. Then a hot one. Then I stand at the window and watch the city sleep and try to find some answer in the darkness.
There isn't one. There's just tomorrow. Just the inevitable. Just a terrified bride and a wedding night I don't know how to navigate without hurting her.
I think about what Flynn said.Be less terrifying. Talk to her like a human being.But I don't know how. Don't know how to be anything other than what I am.
The sky starts to lighten, grey dawn creeping over the city. My wedding day. The day my life changes irrevocably. The day Maeve Connelly becomes Maeve Flannery, whether either of us wants it or not. I should feel something. Dread, maybe. Or resignation. Or anger at the Council for putting me in this position.
Instead, I feel nothing. Just the familiar emptiness I've cultivated for my entire life.
And beneath it, buried deep where I'm trying to ignore it, a dark anticipation that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the thought of wedding gowns and silent hotel rooms and bare skin, and the knowledge that tonight, she'll be mine.
God help us both.
6
MAEVE
Mrs. Brady's hands are shaking as she tightens the laces of my dress.
"You look beautiful, Maeve," she says, her voice thick with tears she's trying to hold back. "Just beautiful."
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back. The dress is as perfect as it was in the bridal shop—more so, even, now that I’m styled and accessorized like a bride. My hair is styled in soft waves, pinned back on one side with pins tipped with pearls. I did my makeup, and it helps with my paleness and the shadows under my eyes, making me look less waifish. I have pearl studs set in gold in my ears, a pearl bracelet at my wrist, both gifts from Mrs. Brady, who is essentially standing in for my mother, my sister, a friend. For any woman who I should have with me today and don’t.
Looking in the mirror, I can see the fear in my eyes. The dress and makeup can't hide that.
"Thank you," I whisper, because Mrs. Brady has been crying on and off all morning, and I'm afraid if I say anything more, I'll start crying too.
"Your mother would be so proud," Mrs. Brady continues, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "You look just like her on her wedding day."
The first part I’m not so sure about. I used to think that if my mother cared about me at all, she wouldn’t have left. That doesn’t entirely match up with the memories I have of her—I remember feeling as if she loved me—but that was what my father and Siobhan and Desmond always said, that if she loved us, she would have stayed.
Now, I’m not certain of that. After all, if I could run, I would. If I could escape this life I was born into, I would. Maybe she just couldn’t take it any longer. Maybe she found a way out.
I just wish she would have taken me with her.
There's a knock on the bedroom door. "Miss Connelly? The car is here." It’s one of the guards—a younger one from the sound of his voice—and I feel myself shrinking inside.
The car. The church. The wedding.
Sean.
My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I might be sick. But I breathe through it, forcing the nausea down.
"I'm ready," I lie.
Mrs. Brady helps me down the stairs, her hand on my elbow to steady me, and out to the waiting car. It's an elegant black limo, and I’m grateful for the old tradition that says Sean shouldn’t see me before the wedding, because I know it will be empty. I’ll have a little time to compose myself, at least. The driver opens the door without meeting my eyes, and I slide into the back seat carefully, arranging the dress around me.
The door shuts, and I half expect to hear the click of the locks, just to keep me from escaping.
As if there’s anywhere for me to go.
It’s beginning to drizzle again, which feels appropriate. I stare out at the leaden sky as we drive toward the Cathedral ofthe Holy Cross, trying to breathe normally, telling myself I can do this.
I can walk down that aisle. I can say the vows. I can become Sean Flannery's wife.
