Might be the only advantage I have left.
32
Victoria
The gown hangsin front of the mirror, taunting me.
Silk. Lace. Hand-stitched beading that probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary. It’s beautiful in the way daggers are beautiful—intricate, polished, designed for one purpose.
Hmm…
Not a bad idea.
Death is certainly an option right now.
It would be easier than the road ahead of me, that much is for sure.
Helen, one of the older maids who’s been with us for years, stands behind me, fingers smoothing the bodice like she’s petting a wild animal she’s trying not to spook. “You’re shaking.” She pulls a loose thread near my shoulder.
“I’m not shaking,” I lie, and it’s obvious. My voice is way too flat to be telling the truth. “I’m perfectly fine. Just vibrating with happiness.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. She knows I’m full of shit. “Of course.” Her hands move to the laces at my back, tightening the corset in steady, practiced pulls. “Hold the rail,” she adds, nodding toward the post of the old canopy bed. “If you fall, I’m too old to catch you.”
I grab the post and exhale as she yanks the laces. “You’re not old,” I grit through my teeth as she pulls so tight I’m afraid I’ll pass out. “You’re in your prime. You put up with me and my father. That’s got to give you bonus points for a long life.”
“Or put me into an early grave.” She laughs. “Your father, I mean. You . . . You’re the easy one.”
I swallow hard. “I used to be easy. Before everything went to hell.”
Helen ties off the last knot, fingers lingering against the small of my back like she wants to say more. “Turn.” She taps my hip.
I rotate slowly, the dress fluttering around my legs in a cloud of ivory.
A mirror stands in front of me, and I don’t recognize the girl in the reflection. It’s not that I don’t look like myself, but because now I look like a bride. I always thought I’d be excited for this moment, but instead, as the tears fill my eyes, I’m scared.
What will happen to me once I’m his?
Helen steps closer, reaching for the veil draped over the chair. “Ready?” she asks, the word thick.
“No,” I answer, not even pretending. “But go ahead.”
She lifts the veil slowly, hands careful. Then she adjusts it around my face. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers, voice breaking. “They don’t deserve to see you like this.”
A lump punches the back of my throat. “Then maybe we should just skip it.” I force a hollow smile. “You can help me climb out the window. I’ll hitchhike to Canada. They have really good healthcare. It can’t be that bad.”
Her smile falters, grief sliding over her face like a shadow. She presses her lips together, glancing toward the door as if it might sprout ears. “You know we can’t.” She breathes. “Not now.”
“Because he’ll find us,” I say quietly.
She closes her eyes for a moment, lashes damp. “Because he already has,” she answers, and I swear the air feels thinner.
I want to ask her more. I want to say his name and hear what she thinks of him. The boy who fixed our doors and kissed me under the stars. The man who burned down my father’s empire and came back with a ring and a cage.
But she’s already risking everything by being in this room with me and talking to me about it.
A knock sounds, two sharp raps on the door. My mother’s rhythm. I’d recognize it anywhere.
Helen’s hands drop instantly, posture straightening. “Are you ready?” she asks again, but this time, it sounds like a script.
