Page 85 of The False Vow

Clearing his throat, the priest addressed us. “The ceremony will begin with a blessing,” he said flatly. “Traditionally, the groom will take the bride’s hands…”

He cast us a meaningful glance. Obediently, Noé and I shuffled nearer to one another. Intertwining our fingers felt too intimate, so instead I simply locked my palms with his, our hands pressed flat against one another’s.

Our eyes met. It was the first time I’d looked at him since the previous night—truly looked at him, not out of the side of my vision, not with some witty comment held up like a dagger to deflect his attention. I was surprised by how natural it felt—comfortable, almost, like falling into bed.

I would stand beside you until my last breath. I heard his voice and swiftly pushed it out, flustered.

Once we’d taken his desired position, Pupil Lucien went on, leading us through the opening blessing and the steps which followed after. Through it all, Noé looked away from me only rarely, half turning his profile whenever he was asked a question so that even while he was addressing the priest, I always remained in his periphery. His expression was neutral almost to the point of being forced, as if he were keeping careful hold over his composure.

“And have either of you spared a thought for your serenade?”

I started, nearly ripping my hands from Noé’s. My palms were sweating, and I’d grown distracted. When had that happened?

“I’m sorry?” I breathed.

Pupil Lucien blinked. “The lovers’ serenades,” he repeated in a somewhat irritated fashion. “They typically precede the formal vows—though they are not usually sung, of course. It is only an expression of speech; they are more personal statements of love, or devotion, given from one partner to the other.”

My stomach pitched further with every word of explanation he gave. “I’m not sure that I understand.”

The priest sighed. “They are a precursor to your vows,” he said slowly. I sensed I was testing his patience, but I could not make myself care. “Meant to express emotions which your oaths do not include.” He nodded encouragingly toward Noé. “For instance, you could describe the attributes you most appreciate about your betrothed. Whether you find him handsome, charming, or the like?”

This was horrifying. I steeled myself, eager to get it over with as soon as possible. “Obviously, he is handsome.”

Noé arched a brow. Unlike me, he seemed amused by the direction in which our rehearsal had developed, his mouth curling slightly at one corner. “Is it obvious?” he replied. “I didn’t know.”

“I am certain that you do,” I hissed. Gathering myself, I twisted toward Pupil Lucien.

“Surely, the serenades will be more meaningful if we do not practice them for one another prior to the ceremony?”

“I’d quite like to hear hers now, actually.” Noé broke in before the priest could reply, still retaining his loose hold on my hands. Catching my gaze, he said slyly, “Tell me, what is it you like best about me, dear?”

His voice was clearly mocking. Desperate, I glanced at the priest again, hoping for an escape, but the man only frowned and gestured for me to continue. Dammit.

I resigned myself to my fate. “I suppose you have nice eyes.”

As I said it, I met them. The gray of his irises was dark in the rainy half-light, like the sea at early morning, still touched by the ink pen of night.

“Do I?” Noé’s speech was soft. “Many people say that.”

For some reason, the idea that I’d selected a common compliment irked me. “Though it is your hands I favor the most,” I corrected quickly. Beside me, the priest nodded silently along in approval; absorbing my words, Noé tensed.

“My hands?” he echoed. “Why is that?”

I blushed. The answer had been instinctive, offered without thought or logic; only now, reflecting on it, did I realize I’d given myself away. In truth, I thought of his hands an inordinate amount—over the past few days in particular, but prior to them, too. How many times had I observed him at dinner since our engagement, the slightly flexed muscles of his forearm as he poured a carafe of wine? How often had I found myself silently marveling at the way the liquid fell in an unbroken stream from the lip of the vessel into his glass, smooth under his touch?

More than anything else, it was his steadiness that enchanted me. How nice would it be, I thought whenever I watched him, to be held by someone who could bring me to such stillness. Who could, even if for only a moment, turn the world quiet.

But of course, I would say none of that.

“Because they can neither talk nor laugh at me,” I replied instead. “And because your fingers are far less sharp than your tongue.”

Noé regarded me closely. I could tell by the curiosity in his stare that he did not believe me, though he did not contest my response, either. Instead, he merely shifted and said, “And what would you know about my tongue?”

My skin blazed. I felt a rush of embarrassment, then gratitude as the priest cleared his throat, grounding me back in reality. Across from me, Noé smiled softly, as if pleased.

“And you, sir?” Pupil Lucien inquired. “What is it you most appreciate about Miss Lovett?”

Noé watched me for a long moment. “Her cruelty,” he answered, and I felt my heart twist.