Father was poised there, a foxy glare settled on his face all too naturally. He raised his knife to the corner of his lips, flicking it upward with a mocking smile before it fell again.
I inhaled and put on my best theatrical beam, hoping my eyes would not give way to tears. How well I could hide my dismay depended on the severity of the ache lodged in my throat or how quickly the air could dry my eyes.
The only light left in the room was from the candles, as my mother did not want to insult the guests or myself with unflattering gaslight.Close family had nearly forgotten my previous occupation; they did not need the association of streetlamps to remind them.
My mother had also made sure the silk stockings fit to a custom length to hide the bruising before she thought it necessary to tailor my sister’s old wedding dress to me. More attention was paid to my undergarments than the dress that concealed them.
It was unfair of them to judge me for enjoying the ballet when my parents were the ones who put me and my sisters there. The worst part was, they would never know how alienating it was to be made to quit something that you’d known your whole life. I had no friends of my own, and very little family whom I trusted. My sisters left happily upon being offered an alternative, but I couldn’t say I felt the same.
An empty expression peered back at me in the wineglass. The wine itself only disturbed when a bloom of datura wilted from my coronet and landed inside the glass.
A sign?I hoped.
I lifted the cup, but my lips met the back of a hand over the top of the glass.
“That wouldn’t be wise,” the stranger, my husband, said from beside me, his hand still cupped over my glass, “unless your intent is to become ill.”
“How silly of me,” I whispered as he took the glass from my hands. My opportunity swept away in an instant.
“Not much of an appetite?” Mr. Kamenev tried to make conversation, gesturing to my untouched plate.
When I’d witnessed him occasionally working in my parents’ home, he’d seemed ordinary. But even in the low light, the man had a certain warmth to him. His skin was a soft tan, his hair only a few shades darker. His eyes were prettier up close, an endless green with a deep blue woven through like hand-dyed cloth. We were close enough that I could see the dark freckle on his cheekbone. I feared for the unassuming man and whatever he may have agreed to.
“I guess the excitement stole my appetite.” My words came out as a faint hum.
“The excitement stole it? Or was it overstimulation?”
I shrugged and pushed the meat around on my plate with my fork. “Would it be terrible to say it is because of the people?”
“Not at all.” A dimple appeared as he seemed amused at my answer. “I am not a fan of crowds either. I am thankful your parents didn’t invite more—I can’t imagine how I’d fare with such a house at full capacity.”
His playful smile was visible for a mere moment before I stared down at my hands. “Trust me, it is as overwhelming as you can imagine.”
“Well, we can throw our ownlavishparties at home instead from now on,” he teased. “A quiet night enjoyed with fresh fruit, a good book, burning hickory.”
I raised a brow and smiled up at him. “Hopefully you wouldn’t mind a guest at one of these humble shut-in parties?”
“I would say yes, but I would have to ask my wife.” He grinned, his fingers brushing against mine under the table.
The heat rose to my cheeks faster than if I were hung upside down. He wasn’t anything like I thought he would be; I half expected a union more callous, but the curious man seemed to have an interest in me. Perhaps this marriage would not be as arduous as I had initially anticipated.
“I’m surprised,” I admitted. “I thought artisans were more social.”
“Let’s just say there is a reason I prefer the company of my sculptures to actual people.” He leaned down by my ear, close enough that I could smell hints of fig and smoky white cedar. “Though, I suppose I wouldn’t mind your company, if you allow it?”
“If you won’t mind it, neither will I,” I whispered.
“Then all we must do is survive the pleasantries, then head home.” He ran his thumb over my fingers. I wasn’t sure if it was to soothe me or himself. At least we were relatively in agreement.
The sharp chime of cutlery pinging a glass resonated, pulling the attention of anyone who could hear to the end of the table.
Father stood, a champagne flute in his proudly poised hand. “I just wanted to say a few words for the happy couple before we inevitably scatter toward the end of this beautiful feast.” His expression gave every indication of happiness, but the sharpness in my father’s eyes would never be as warm as his facade.
I glanced at Mr. Kamenev. There was no stiffness in his posture as he devoted his attention. I wondered what it would be like to look at Father and not be riddled with trepidation.
“A toast.” Father’s voice cut through the air, fluid and eloquent. “May you live as long as you like, and have all you like for as long as you live.”
The guests raised their glasses and drank, though Father never took his eyes off me as he peered over the rim of his flute, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
