Page 134 of The Betrothal

His brows rose and my lips parted, the juice slipping inside, the taste bitter with the added drugs.

“Sophie, now!” Father ordered.

She stroked the skin of my arm drawing a shudder, her hand pressing a bouquet into mine, then he turned away to leave me, the sound of the string quartet flowing through the doors which opened to allow her to enter the church.

By the time I had finished the drink – struggling with the speed he tilted the glass and unable to stop unless I was willing for it to spill which would only cause me a different set of problems – the music had changed.

He took the glass and discarded it on the counter, coming to stand beside me, he wavered, briefly, before he reached around my shoulders and lowered the veil over my face. He hooked my fingers inside the crook of his elbow before releasing my hand as if it burned him.

The doors before me swung inward, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifting into the small room, the notes slowly haunting and ethereal.

I had so loved this song once.

Father moved, and I lurched beside him, my vision swimming with the suddenness, he slowed until he found a pace I could manage and clapped his fingers over mine.

I didn’t try to find any affection in his act. He was trying to keep me upright.

We floated through the doors, his face falling into a mask of pride and joy, so I pulled my lips into something that I hoped resembled a smile and searched for Sophie.

The aisle was long. Lines of lilies and roses cascaded down the edges, wrapping up and over the ends of the pews. The centre carpet was a soft cream, complementing the white floral arrangements. The pure white beauty a fantastic joke in the presence of so much clutching corruption and control.

I found her. Sophie was standing on the raised platform, and she was smiling at me. At least I thought she was – her form wouldn’t stay still for long enough for me to be completely certain.

I could step forwards, one foot in front of the other, to get to Sophie.

My legs tingled beneath me. The vodka-infused full-body cuddle now morphing into an unsteadiness that only came from a skin full of alcohol and poor life choices. And I was weathering the effects in a room filled to the brim with every significant politician in society.

Their eyes were like pins pricking across my skin.

I felt completely exposed, making the mistake of glancing over the staring faces.

There was pity – more than I’d expected – and there was envy. Then there was Ester with her critical suspicion and raging hurt.

So many eyes, all of them judged me. Some actively hated me. I knew it. I knew it.

Finally, the steps rose ahead of me and I found the forethought to lift the flowing skirt to take them, one stilted step at a time.

I looked at him then.

His forest green suit, matched by his groomsmen behind him. His jaw was clean shaven, skin smooth and bright, and his eyes sharp.

He looked down on me adoringly and I blinked hard to keep him in focus.

“Isabelle,” he whispered. “You look beautiful.” He turned to my father. “Thank you, Edmund.”

Father didn’t speak, he passed my arm to Teddy and withdrew, the sounds of his footsteps lost in the rustle of the guests sitting.

My bouquet was teased from my fingers, the gentle reassurance of Sophie’s touch fleeting.

The room shifted slightly and then settled more as I stilled. Teddy’s arm swooped around my waist and he reeled me in. The act of a caring fiancé who wanted never to be parted from his recently returned wife-to-be.

The priest began to speak, calling across the room, welcoming the guests.

“I’m very disappointed in you, my bride,” Teddy whispered carefully, nuzzling my ear through the long veil. “I’ve just been comforting your distraught sister, what on earth did you do?”

I remained silent, my mind thick and slow, I had nothing to say and Ester worked so very fast.

“Not even bothering to make excuses, that’s a relief.” His forehead came to rest against the side of mine. “I like you when you’re like this.”