Page 133 of The Betrothal

“She will embarrass us,” Mother snarled. “She’s leveraged threats against her sister, against all of us by association. You should have sent her to the clinic, Edmund.”

Father let out a low groan, scrubbing his face, he stared at Mother, a silent communication passing between them.

Mother relented at whatever she saw and she huffed. “Ester, come now.”

She guided my sister past Father, her fury had morphed into watering eyes and pouting lips, a classic technique, and one that never failed on Father.

The tearful pout shifted to a victorious smirk for only an instant before she was out of my sight.

“Isabelle, come here.” He addressed me without looking at me. “Sophie, could you please get Isabelle a glass of orange juice? Something with sugar.”

Sophie hesitated.

“It’s okay, Soph.” I released where I still held her.

She snuck from the room, the door clicking quietly closed behind her. The entrance through which we had come had been secured as soon as we were inside and I was now alone with Father in a quiet alcove at the front of the church.

He didn’t speak to me, and the silence felt immense.

“Father?” I stepped forwards unsteadily.

His eyes only narrowed, enforcing the agonising silence.

“Say something.” I tried to meet his gaze, but he looked away. “Please?” My voice broke.

“Here.” Sophie snuck back into the room. My mask not quite back in place, she saw straight through me and glanced between us.

Sophie offered a flute of juice. I accepted it gratefully and raised it to take a sip.

Father moved, his hand coming to cover the glass and pressed for me to lower it. His fingers dug into his inside breast pocket, withdrawing something in his fingers.

He looked at Sophie then; she stood her ground.

I smiled at her, the action forced but I was still grateful to have her. My true family.

The thought was a dagger to my stuttering heart. My pulse felt too slow, sluggish and no amount of horror from the day’s events thus far caused it to wake up, not properly.

Father’s fingers extended, a pale capsule between them, which he flexed and the thing broke in two, a white powder cascading into the juice below.

Sophie’s gasp met my squeak of horror.

He was increasing my dose.

The white powder sank below the surface and Father cupped the rim of the flute, swirling it weakly in my hold, still careful to avoid any contact.

“Sophie, you will be expected at the front of the church.”

The music had started up, the call for Sophie to walk down the aisle ahead of me.

Her repeated hesitation had him bristling.

“Sophie.” His voice was low, warning. “Your involvement in all this has hardly been unnoticed. I’d warn you not to swim against the current today.”

“You’re joking?” she challenged, her back ramrod straight.

Father simply sniffed before he finally looked at me with nothing but cool detachment in his face.

He placed several fingers under the glass and pressed, watching me carefully while he forced me to raise it to my lips.