“Perhaps you misinterpreted,” her mother said. “Richard is an honorable man. He’d never harm you.”
Poppy sucked in a breath. Her own mother believed Richard over her. He hadn’t even needed to be here to smooth talk his way through it. Though she had known this was the most likely outcome, her mother’s dismissal landed like a kick to the sternum.Stupid girl, did you really think you’d be believed?She was furious?—not at her mother, whose betrayal she’d expected?—but at herself, for harboring hope like contraband. No one here would fight for her. If this marriage took place, no one would even care when she got exiled.
She tried one last time, forcing herself to breathe despite her tight rib cage. “If you take me to that cathedral today, know that he’ll be shipping me off before the month is over. You’ll never see me again.”
Her mother pinched her lips together. “Things will be okay, Poppy. You’ll see.”
No, they won’t be.The lump in Poppy’s throat had grown dangerously swollen, but she couldn’t show up at the cathedral with a tear-stained face. She hardly cared about looking joyful, but she refused to look afraid. Poppy remained still as a statue as her mother pinned the veil behind the crown of flowers on her head.
“Come now,” her mother cajoled. “The car will arrive any minute now.”
She settled the veil over Poppy’s face, as absolute and suffocating as a shroud.
• • •
The sun rose behind the cathedral as Demetria and Poppy arrived in front of it. Not a single cloud marred the pastel sky. The sight rivaled the dusk of Poppy’s first night back in Marnapur, but she could not enjoy it at all.
As the two women got out of the car, Founderson Harold stood waiting on the steps to greet them, the dawn light winking off his embroidered robes. Foundersons were scholars and protectors of the Founder’s sacred texts. Though they were ineligible to hold any title or position of political power, they still had a great deal of influence and often pooled information among themselves. In theory, any man could become a founderson, but it took almost a decade of intense study to qualify for such a position, and not many finished.
“Good morning, Your Grace, Miss Sutherland.” Founderson Harold winked at Poppy. “By lunchtime, we won’t be calling you that anymore.”
Poppy stared mutely at him.
He faltered, then addressed her mother instead. “The Montroses have yet to arrive, but the room for the bride is ready. Second floor, west wing. One of my acolytes will take her. Your Grace, if you’d follow me, I have a few questions about payment for the service....”
The two of them began to walk to the founderson’s office. A warm hand touched Poppy’s shoulder. She jumped with a curse, whirling around to see a Virian boy of around seventeen, dressed in a simple brown robe.
“Oh.” She eyed his brown skin. “You’rethe acolyte?”
“Founderson Harold takes in orphans sometimes,” he explained, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive shrug. “It’s better than the orphanage.”
She flinched at the inadvertent reminder of Samina’s words:The orphanage was nothing more than a glorified prison.“Right,” she said. “Show the way, then.”
As he turned, a six-inch utility blade swung from where it had been tied to his belt, bumping against his hip. It wouldn’t be hard to grab it from him, she thought. He was skinny, no taller than she.
She could stab Richard. Poppy stumbled, tripping over the intrusive thought. “Are you okay?” the acolyte asked, taking her arm to steady her. “Sorry, I should have warned you. The floors are a little uneven in this wing. This part of the building is really old.”
“I’m fine,” she said, brushing him off, her heart racing. “I’ll be more careful.”
The thought had lodged itself in her skull like a barbed thorn, and she couldn’t pull it free. In her mind’s eye, she reached forward and pilfered the blade from the acolyte, tucking it into her sleeve until it was time to say the vows. She would shove it between Richard’s ribs, twisting hard, blade scraping bone, his blood blooming across her dress.
If he was dead, she wouldn’t have to marry him.
But if Poppy killed him here, in front of everyone, then she would be executed, forget exiled. The successor for the viceroy’s office would go to a vote. Richard would lose, but so would she. And as much as Poppy hated him, she wanted to win far more than she wished for him to lose.
Killing Richard was out of the question.
Poppy followed the acolyte into the bride’s room, which was nothing more than a glorified storage room, bare walls and weathered tiles that looked centuries old.
“Fancy,” she remarked, looking around.
“It’s not much,” the acolyte said apologetically. “Like I said, this part of the building is ancient. You can tell because it’s built in a completely different style compared to the rest of it. See? There’s no wooden paneling, and the walls have these hollows, like little alcoves. The roof is also curved, whereas the main chamber and the new portions of the building have flat roofs.”
In other circumstances, Poppy would have tuned the boy out, but she clung to his rambling, using it to remain afloat as the panic began to rise around her like water in a tank. She strode to the far wall, looking out a dusty window between two of the alcoves. Outside, a motorcade of police cars arrived, one by one, carrying officers in ceremonial uniform. The last car in the chain was a silver Peregrine sedan. She turned away, gut churning.
“Where are the statues for the alcoves?” she asked, desperate to keep the acolyte talking.
“We’ve never kept statues here.” The acolyte shrugged. “This is just a spare room, really. We don’t use the west wing much.”
