20
Ahalf-hour later, I stand with the other contestants in the nave. We’re lined up in a row to one side of the altar facing rows and rows of occupied pews. I’m surprised to find the church so full of eager guests. Most appear to be human, although I spot several figures with telltale signs of fae heritage—a male with curling horns on each side of his head, a female with feathered blue wings, someone with brown bark-like skin. I scan the frontmost pew, finding Glint McCreedy already scribbling away in his notebook. He glances from the row of contestants to Brother Dorian, who stands on the opposite end of the dais, as stoic as ever. Thankfully, I can’t easily see him from where I stand. If I could, I’d surely analyze his every expression and go out of my mind.
Father Viktor stands at the center of the dais. He addresses our audience and welcomes them to the Blessing Ceremony with a brief prayer. I barely hear his words as I keep my eyes downcast, my expression humble. All the while, my skin crawls with the effort it takes not to fidget. Each minute that ticks by sets me more and more on edge. My gambit with the bracelet created a greater stir than I’d intended, but I’ve no clue if it will be enough. After we relayed to Father Viktor the tale of what happened in the hall, he ordered us back to our rooms. I paced and paced as I awaited what would happen next. It felt like an eternity before he returned with a short lecture about how theft and violence would not be tolerated, and how Saint Lazaro’s bridal contest is meant to stand above those held in other less savory establishments. “Drama for the sake of drama is not to be encouraged,” he said. And that was that. Shortly after, the initiates returned to escort us to the nave, and both Franny and Vanessa were still among us.
I hazard a glance at the two girls now. Franny stands on one side of me, stiff as a board but otherwise unreadable. Vanessa’s place is at the other end, closest to Father Viktor. She wears a blue silk hat with black netting draped over half her face to obscure her bruised eye. She’s far less tense than Franny, although her demure smile doesn’t meet her eyes. If either of them got a worse lecture than I did, it’s impossible to tell.
I turn my attention to the audience, wishing Podaxis were amongst them. Chaperones aren’t required to attend the Blessing Ceremonies, and I haven’t seen my friend since just before I executed my plan. He’s become quite the master at hiding and spying, though, so he could be anywhere. Regardless, I could really use a friendly face right now.
“I’m so nervous,” whispers Greta, standing on my other side. She’s the last in the row of contestants, the only person that keeps me from feeling like our order upon the dais indicates our favor with Dorian. As far as I know, Greta has done nothing to earn his displeasure, unless he’s learned of her false ears. Before I committed to stealing Vanessa’s bracelet, there was a moment when I briefly considered outing her confession to wearing stage props—and most likely faking her fae heritage—but I sort of like Greta. Certainly more than Vanessa. And, unlike Franny, Greta wants to be here. Besides, it would have been much harder to appear a neutral party had I tattled on her.
“…and now, let the Blessing Ceremony commence,” Father Viktor says, which sends my heart skittering all over again. Greta grasps my hand and squeals with excitement.
For the love of shells. It’s time.
Viktor exchanges places with Dorian, but I don’t dare look his way. Instead, I try to make my face appear hopeful, although I’d bet a thousand citrine chips I look more constipated than anything.
Dorian’s voice rings out, his deep baritone carried over the audience, thanks to the impressive acoustics of the nave. “Thank you for joining me at my first Blessing Ceremony. I have enjoyed getting to know these lovely contestants in my efforts to find my bride.”
I try not to wrinkle my nose at how flat his tone is. Am I the only one who notices? He doesn’t sound like an enthusiastic lover at all. I suppose it makes sense, though. He doesn’t want to marry a fae bride. To him, it’s a necessary evil to guarantee citizenship, all so he can claim his inheritance—the legacy of his vile father. A man whose steps Dorian is following. The reminder helps soothe my nerves, ease my breathing.
I’m here for a reason. I need to stay for a reason. I stole that bracelet and got an insufferable girl punched in the face for a reason.
This time, when I try to look hopeful, I’m pretty sure I do.
Dorian speaks again. “I will now select the women who will be continuing on to tomorrow’s round of events.”
Brother Billius joins Dorian at the center of the dais, cradling a bundle of lilies.
“I have six pink stargazer lilies and one plain white lily,” Dorian says. “Those I hand a stargazer lily will be staying. She who receives the white lily will leave tonight with my fondest thanks and farewell.”
“A lily,” Greta whispers with a note of disappointment. “I received a hat for every round I passed inWho Wants to Marry a Milliner.”
I swallow hard, unable to respond. Meanwhile, the figures in the audience shift in their seats, many leaning forward with eager expressions.
Dorian steps to the edge of the dais with a pink lily in his hand, then turns toward us with a tight-lipped smile. “Vanessa Courter.”
My stomach sinks as Vanessa all but skips up to him and accepts her lily. Shells. It seems her reaction to having her bracelet stolen wasn’t enough to warrant her elimination from the contest. That still leaves Franny though…
Vanessa flits over to Father Viktor. The priest places a hand on her shoulder and mutters a prayer. That must be theblessingportion of this whole Blessing Ceremony. After that, he ushers her to the other end of the dais where she grins like an otter who got the best oyster.
Dorian announces the next names far too fast for my liking. Josie Richmond. Agnes Breene. Briony Rose. They all receive the beautiful stargazer lilies. Franny, Greta, and I remain. For one fleeting moment, I wonder if perhaps we really are standing in order from most to least favored. Maybe Podaxis heard wrong. Maybe Greta is the one going home—
“Greta Garter,” Dorian says, a pink lily in hand.
My stomach lurches as Greta turns to me with a gasp before strutting to Dorian like a starlet accepting a bouquet after a play. She takes the lily and turns toward the audience, waving and smiling. A flash bulb illuminates the dais, courtesy of Sam Sputnik and his camera. She’s certainly popular with the crowd. So much so that it takes some prodding from Father Viktor to get her over to the other side of the dais for her blessing.
“Princess Maisie.”
My heart stops. I hadn’t been prepared to hear the next name called, much less the sound of mine on Dorian’s lips. Heat flushes my cheeks as the attention of the audience shifts to me. My gaze falls to the lily in his hand, but there’s not one. There are two.
One pink.
One white.
And that wicked bastard is giving no indication which is meant for me.
My eyes meet his and I find no mirth in them.
