Disappointment seeps through my skin.The union of our families, of course. Because that is the reason for this match, not love. Only a few people know that my father has an entirely different motive for marrying me off to the King. It’s not about stability for the kingdom or honor for our family. It’s about the most valuable thing there is: information.
It should not come as a surprise that the letter isn’t a declaration of undying love. The man has never met me. All he has seen is a portrait, which, according to my father, has brought the King ‘great pleasure,’ but still—he has had no opportunity to fall in love with me. And yet, my foolish heart is dreaming of the collision of our souls and minds, a sense of knowing that this is to betrue love.
I shrug. It might not be a love letter, but he has sent me a ring.
It’s a band of gold, wrought with entwining vines and set with a dark red garnet cut as smooth as a drop of blood.
How very fitting.
The ring feels heavy in my hand, much heavier than any ring should.
“It’s beautiful.” I smile at my mother.
“It is a thoughtful gift for sure, and shows His Majesty has excellent taste. Now, let’s get some food into you, the ceremony will commence soon and you’ll need your strength for the day ahead.”
Before I rise to follow my mother, I slip the ring onto my finger.
On cue, the vise around my heart tightens.
The first time it happened was in my father’s study, when the sealed letter to the King changed hands. A notch, that’s what it felt like. A notch in some unseen wheel slipping forward.
The second time is now. The gold cools against my skin, the garnet seems to darken, and there it is again: the wheel advancing, the next tooth engaging.
As if my life is part of some vast design, a destiny already prepared and drawing nearer. I wonder when it will shut, like a clasp.
Click.
* * *
The carriage comes to a halt with a dull thud. The air inside is close and stale, unbearably hot, even for July. I am not a sweaty person, not like my father’s valet. As kids, we used todelight in taking bets on just how many handkerchiefs the portly Mr Edwards would go through a day. I only won the bet once, on a particularly hot day in spring, when my father made his valet set up a garden party in the heat…seventy-six handkerchiefs.
I sigh. I have exactly one handkerchief, and I stuff it between my breasts, where the sweat is running freely.
The midday sun blazes, though from the window I can see dark clouds gathering slowly in the west.
A knock at the door.
“Are you ready, m’lady?” the King’s footman asks.
I draw a deep breath.“Yes.”
The door swings open, and a roar of cheers rushes in. The marketplace is packed with people in their Sunday best, handkerchiefs fluttering like the leaves of the magnolia trees in front of the chapel in spring.
I take it all in, the toothless smiling faces, their excited waves in hope of receiving a coin. I signal to the footman to open the purse. A murmur erupts in the crowd, the clinking sound of the currency like a Hail Mary to the citizens of Acheron. The footman lifts his arm and starts throwing the valuable pieces of metal into the crowd.
“Thank you, m’lady!” an old woman with a leathery face cries.
“M’lady, blessed be you and your union,” another voice shouts. People are clapping and awing as I turn in my blood red dress. I beam, showing my best smile. It’s a genuine one, the adoration of the crowd is something I could get used to. I wave and smile, gesturing for the footmen to hand me some of the flowers people have thrown my way. They are already wilted from being without water for too long, but they looklike they used to be quite pretty. The shouts of the crowd get louder; more and more coins are being thrown into the mass of bodies.
Even the people at the back have now heard about their generous Queen-to-be. I can see them pushing forward, trying to get closer to the cathedral entrance.
Hands that were waving now claw at the air. A coin skitters over the stones, and a dozen people dive for it at once. The laughter breaks, shatters into arguments, into shouts. Somewhere, a child begins to wail.
I laugh again, but it comes out thinner than I intend.
The sea of faces shifts; the smiles are gone, replaced with open, hungry mouths. The press of bodies knits tighter. People surge forward, and the line of footmen bows like a piece of wood about to snap. The last of the coins vanish as if the ground itself has swallowed them, and still, they push, push, push. A man grabs another by the collar. I see the jerk of his arm, a hard swing, and then the two disappear beneath a wave of hats and elbows.
“Inside, Your Grace,” someone says at my ear, voice suddenly clipped.
