I try to wave again, to make it gentle, pretty, like before, but the crowd is no longer looking at me. They are looking at the purse. At the soldiers. At each other. A woman stumbles and is borne sideways by the press as if she weighs nothing.
My dress sticks damply to my back.
For the first time, the cheering sounds like roaring.
A hand closes around my arm—not unkindly, but firm—and I am turned, guided toward the yawning doors of the cathedral. Behind me, coins scatter like sparks; a cry goes up, not in blessing this time but in pain or triumph, I cannottell which. The thunder of feet and voices swells, filling the square, filling my head.
I do not look back again.
The heavy iron doors behind us close with a distinctive thud, almost shutting out the shouts from the crowd outside. My skin feels feverishly hot, the sweat in the cooler air of the cathedral eliciting shivers all over my body.
“Are you alright, m’lady?” An older man’s voice cuts through my spiral.
“Yes, yes, I am sorry. Just a little shaken up. Will the people outside be alright?” I ask, looking back toward where the crowd is still fighting.
“Never worry, my child. The King’s soldiers know how to handle the crowd; you are quite safe in here.”
A gloved hand lands on my shoulder.
I look up and glare into the watery blue eyes of the bishop. Their bright color is almost unnerving, his stare that much more intense because of it. His face is weathered; he is either very old or has spent a significant amount of time outside in the sun. His eyebrows are a sight to behold, bushy and unruly, nearly merging into one.
They almost hide the laughter lines around his eyes, but they are still visible.
My whole body relaxes.
He smirks and pats my shoulder.
“There you go, m’lady. Shall we go inside? I believe a very impatient king is waiting for your arrival.”
Right.
The King. My wedding.
I draw my shoulders back and wiggle my torso a little. Unlike the seamstress predicted, I can still feel the painfultwinge of the corset on my rib cage. Just a few more steps and I’ll be able to sit down.
The bishop gestures toward the double doors leading into the octagon of the cathedral. A young woman walks over and curtsies before me. I repeat the motion and hear her snicker.
“You’re the Queen-to-be, m’lady. It is entirely unnecessary to curtsy for anyone, save the King.”
Her tone is light and friendly, but a veil is hiding her face and it’s hard to see whether she is laughing at me or about me.
“Forgive me. It is a habit I shall have to cast off in time,” I respond demurely.
“My name is Aileen, I am your cousin. I am to serve as your lady’s maid and companion. We used to spend our summers together in Edin, do you remember? You were just a babe then.”
A flicker of memory flutters up at the mention of those summers, like a moth to light—then turns to ash and is gone.
“Not clearly, I was so young. But I should like to hear of it, if you will tell me.”
Aileen nods eagerly.
“Of course, m’lady. We will have plenty of time to get reacquainted. But first, we have to ensure you get married.” She reaches up with her hands and pulls the red veil over my face.
The double doors slowly swing open, and the sound of a choir humming fills the air. The bishop walks ahead, followed by Aileen and me.
The coolness is what I notice first.
After the glare and heat of the square, the interior seems to swallow sound and light alike. I step from sun into shadow, and for a heartbeat I can only blink, letting my eyes adjust.The air is different here, heavy with wax and incense.
