Outside, the sun was starting to rise. With the city crawling with police, Hasan would have to continue the rest of his search tomorrow night, under cover of darkness. Taking one last look around Jayendhra’s place, he left, headed back to the apartment. As he stepped into the empty apartment, it occurred to him that he did not know where Zeyar was staying. In a way, he was relieved that he hadn’t already been inside. But where else could he have gone?
It didn’t matter, he told himself. Zeyar’s whereabouts didn’t matter. But as he headed off to sleep, he couldn’t help but pause in the doorway to Zeyar’s room, staring at the neatly made bed within.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Birthright
It was no secret that every woman out in society would murder their own fiancé for the chance to have their own custom Agatha Lark wedding dress. As Poppy looked in the mirror, she found it wasn’t hard to see why. Agatha had outdone herself, crafting a masterpiece out of ivory silk the same shade as the elephant tusks that hung in the Sutherlands’ sitting room.
Long bishop sleeves puffed below the elbow before tightening in a long cuff down her forearm. Half a dozen buttons fashioned from Welkish pearls adorned each one. A silk-and-pearl choker concealed her scar from the museum. The skirt, puffed up with layers of tulle, was further weighted down by handcrafted silk roses in Montrose scarlet.
Poppy’s gown would be as coveted as the man she would marry, if not more. She’d be the envy of every woman in the chapel, yet she’d trade with any of those ladies in a heartbeat. Despite her resolution to end her engagement, her parents had dismissed her pleas, writing them off as a case of cold feet. It did not help her cause that she couldn’t give them a sufficient reason beyond the flimsy excuse of incompatibility, but she wasn’t confident that they would believe in the truth.
As Agatha arranged the bridal veil over her face, she couldn’t help but feel as though she were being fitted for a burial shroud instead.
“There,” Agatha said, stepping back. “It’s simpler than I would have liked, but...”
The couturiere trailed off awkwardly, leaving the end of the sentence hanging in the air:But I didn’t have enough time.Poppy didn’t begrudge Lark for her grievance; if anything, she felt the same way. In less than a week, she’d be married to Richard, her place cemented at his side. The thought didn’t inspire the satisfaction that it used to.
When it became obvious that Poppy did not intend to reply, her mother cleared her throat. “It’s perfect. We are both so grateful to you.”
“Of course.” Agatha pinched Poppy’s cheek. “Anything for the future marchioness.”
She flinched backward. Agatha took her hand away quickly.
“Madame Lark, do you mind giving me a moment alone with my daughter?” Demetria suggested. “His Grace is in his office down the hall. One of his staff will give you the final check.”
The couturiere looked relieved by the suggestion. She gathered up her pins and measuring tape and hurried out of Poppy’s bedroom. Once Agatha closed the door behind her, Poppy’s mother rose from the settee and came to stand behind her. In the mirror, Poppy’s gaze met her disapproving stare. Though her face was mostly obscured by the lace veil, she kept her features cold and impartial. Mother and daughter stood like that for a moment, each sizing up the other.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” her mother said. “It’s one thing to have cold feet. But must you be so sullen and ungrateful in front of the couturiere?”
“Forgive me, Mother,” she bit out. “I will endeavor to better conceal my discontent at being forced to the altar.”
Her mother gave an aggravated sigh. “Where is this coming from? It wasyouwho rushed to get married. We are not forcing you!”
Poppy couldn’t argue with her there. She had pursued Richard, chasing respect and security, but she now knew better than to expect either of these things from him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Yet you insist on going forward with this. What is that, if not forcing me?”
“I still don’t understandwhyyou wish to end the engagement.” Her mother softened her voice, coaxing, “Be honest, now: What has changed?”
The truth perched at the tip of Poppy’s tongue, but Richard’s voice whispered in her head:Who do you think they’ll believe?The rules of this game had been written by men like him, putting all the cards in his hand. He was a white, wealthy, attractive man who was well respected in the community. Meanwhile, Poppy was a brown woman who had been exiled for seven years over a single necklace. The truth didn’t serve people like her.
“I’ve changed,” she answered honestly. “I returned to marry Richard so I’d have a place in the nobility, as a marchioness, and as the viceroy’s wife. But I don’t want that anymore.”
“Why not?” Her mother’s bewilderment was plain on her face. “It’s your birthright.”
Poppy turned, lifting the veil away. “No, Mother. A birthright is something you’re entitled to, not something you have to marry someone else to receive. By this definition, the only birthright I have is vicereine.”
Her mother’s confusion gave way to realization, which morphed into disbelief. She thrust a reprimanding finger into Poppy’s face, parting her lips, but a familiar voice spoke first.
“What’s going on in here?”
Her father stood in the hallway. He surveyed the scene: Poppy standing on the tailor’s box like a cold statue on a pedestal, her mother on the ground, reaching up as though to tear her down.
“Madame Lark has outdone herself,” he said. “But it seems as though neither of you is happy.”
Her mother spoke first. “Poppy doesn’t want to marry Richard!”
