Prologue
The Artisan
Datura was an unconventional choice of flower, notably in the bouquet of your bride.
Though, I may be just as odd as my intended. Any person in their right mind may think me mad, seeing my earnestness to marry a stranger. But as I assured others, as well as myself, I was completely lucid.
The ceremony was held in the home of her father. Mr. De Villier was a frequent patron of mine, as he was in need of finer finishing pieces for his newly built home—his own art, in a sense. Call me narcissistic, but there is something poetic about getting married under the same roof as some of my most expensive pieces.
The walls were tall and proud like priests, and decorated in a similar manner. Ornate molding and floors made of the rarest wood elevated the domicile into something more than just collections of four walls. Each detail made it known that, even while inanimate, it would always be worth more than you. The glass of the windows alone would strip me of my salary if I happened to break one.
Despite the ostentatious abode, the family received only an intimate gathering for our union.
We stood before the mantel in one of the reception rooms, neatly rearranged to hold the immediate family of the bride.
Her sisters stood staunchly behind her, only one of whom looked enthusiastic about being there. The younger of the two had such a radiant smile, the corners of her lips would touch her ears if it got any wider. She was practically vibrating with excitement for her youngest sister.
The eldest reminded me of one of my statues, but her stare was undoubtedly colder than anything I could carve from dead stone.
Lastly, my dearest bride.
Admittedly, I was hesitant to look down at her. I understood that what may be my most joyous day could be one she had been lamenting. I was reassured that she knew the union would be mostly one of convenience, given both of our needs.
She’s the one who chose you,her mother mentioned sourly when I was propositioned.
It dawned on me only then that I had never paid much attention in the time I’d spent working on their home. To have caught the eye of one of the daughters, enough for her to request me personally, was like a bolt out of the blue. I’m sure she had prospects grander than myself, painstakingly curated by the governing power that was her mother.
The afternoon light crept through the windows and cut through the haze of the parlor, daring to illuminate the revenant before me, outlining the silhouette of her face under the veil that shrouded her from view. The only thing that could convince me she was not a vision was the smell of wild blossoms in her bouquet.
Even through the veil, I could see the dress she wore was narrowly ill fitted, a hand-me-down perhaps; I was no stranger to those. But why would she settle for anything other than new? A detail such as this made me wonder about the strange personalities who’d adopted me into their family.
As I lifted the airy fabric, I could have been convinced that God had revealed an angel to me, crowned in a coronet of trumpet flowers among tight orange blossom buds. She gave me a look I recognized, one of cornered fawns or hungry animals. For what, I couldn’t know.The distress was apparent, but something within me suggested it wasn’t caused by my presence; it had been fermenting long before.
Her eyes were a deep sepia, and her skin competed in fairness with her gown, two elegant beauty marks to the left of her lips. Even the blond of her hair held a mousy pallidity that made the overall air about her feel frail.
I picked up her hands, running my thumbs over her slight fingers. They were cold, like she had been outside only a moment before. Her knuckles and joints were a gentle rosy color.
“I, Arkady Kamenev,” I recited, and her eyes finally met mine, as if I’d startled her from her thoughts, “take thee, Petronille De Villier, to be my wife.” I slipped the ruby heirloom onto her finger, letting my touch linger in the moment. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, and I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.”
“I, Petronille De Villier”—her voice was elegant like a stalk of wild bluebells, each word dangling like a bell in front of me—“take thee, Arkady Kamenev, to be my husband.” Her eyes fell to our hands as she slipped the band onto my fourth finger. She was trembling like a leaf in the wind. I clasped my hands over hers in hopes of steadying her. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death parts us.”
“Having witnessed your marriage vows in the eyes of God and before all who are assembled here,” the minister droned, looking to the guests, then down to us, “I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
As I cupped her face in my hands, hers placed atop mine as if not wanting to part with the security of touch, her eyes were glassy. I kissed her then, her lips trembling as they locked with mine.
Not many people know that tears of various emotions taste different. Tears of joy would typically taste sweet; my bride’s tears were acidic as they reached our lips.
Chapter One
The Performer
For my husband’s sake, I believed, in all kindness, he would be better off dead.
There was no trust among the De Villier family, only trust that it would go their way or not at all. I believed as a child that my father was the devil; as an adult, I understood that he was worse.
I knew this to be true. My mother knew it too. My sisters understood this most of all.
Félice squeezed my hand with a firm grip. When I pulled my gaze from her hand, she tilted her head toward the other end of the dining table.
