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“There she is!” a cheery voice cried, startling Marina. “I told you it was her.”

Just then, a force struck Marina, arms constricting around her in a tight hug.

“I thought you looked beautiful on your wedding day, but I had not seen anything,” the voice chirped. “You must be the most exquisite lady at tonight’s ball. Truly, I have not seen anyone else that comes close.”

The enthusiastic woman pulled back, though the sight of her did not help Marina.

“Do I… know you?”

The woman grimaced, giving Marina’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Apologies. I should have known you would not remember me from the wedding. How could I, when Anthony whisked you away before I had the chance to get to know you?” She shot a pointed look at the man himself. “I am Octavia Gale, Duchess of Highcastle.”

The name rang a faint bell.

“You are… the wife of Anthony’s friend?” Marina said.

“I am indeed.” Octavia smiled, undeterred by Marina’s awkwardness.

“The friend with amnesia?”

“The very same.” Octavia chuckled. “Now, let us have a drink, and then you can tell me everything about yourself, for my husband has told me almost nothing.”

The husband in question, Malcolm, stepped forward with two glasses of lemonade, passing them to the women. Marina did remember him, for it was hard to forget someone who towered above everyone else and had such a grizzled, gruff appearance. He, too, had scars, though it was different when a man had them. No one turned their nose up. No one would have dared.

“Aye, because Anthony has told me almost nothing since the wedding,” Malcolm said, in his Scottish brogue. “Although, I heard ye were unwell. I hope ye’re feeling better?”

Marina swallowed down a much-needed gulp of lemonade. “I am, thank you.”

Did Anthony write to tell you I was sick? She could not explain it, but the thought charmed her. She had never been someone that someone else wrote about in their correspondence before.

“How was your honeymoon?” Octavia asked, pulling her to one side. “Have you settled into Knotgill now? Do you like it there? And how is William? He must be delighted to have your company. Have you spent much time with him?”

Marina sipped her drink, her nerves jittering at so many questions at once.

“I do not really know what a honeymoon is for,” she answered after a breath. “But I am mostly settled, in no small part because of William. He is a wonderful child.”

Octavia nodded as if that was the right answer. “Well, a honeymoon is to get to know one’s husband better. How are things between you and Anthony?”

“Fine,” Marina replied.

It was not a question she had stopped to ask herself, for how was a person supposed to measure such a thing? They were… amicable, but being near to him seemed to have weakened her heart. In truth, she was not sure if it was medically safe to be near him.

She might have asked if it was possible to be averse to one’s husband, not in the sense of dislike or anything, but in the sense that her body reacted oddly to him. Like some people got a rash after eating strawberries, or milk upset their stomach.

But she was supposed to be the healer; it was something she had to figure out for herself.

“Fine? Oh no, that will not do.” Octavia prompted. “Do you like him? Is he sweet to you? Is there affection?”

Marina stared down into her lemonade as if she might find the answer in the fruity sediment. “I… like him, and he has been very kind and welcoming to me.”

But affection? She frowned, thinking of his hand on the middle of her back earlier, and the way he had held her when he caught her in the gardens. Did that count as affection? What about the sweet, attentive manner in which he had tended to her during her sickness? Was that affection?

She was still pondering her reply when the whispers returned, distracting her.

“What a pitiful thing,” someone said.

“A waste of a lovely gown,” another remarked.

“It just goes to show that a new wardrobe cannot change anything.”