Page 6

The music changes as Father leads me through the door, becoming sober—much like a death march.

Though I can’t see a thing, I imagine Lawrence standing at the front of the room. He’s likely dashing in his wedding garb, with just a hint of mischief in his eyes.

But as I walk, trembling from nerves and sick with sadness, the image of Lawrence shifts. I see Henrik waiting for me at the end of the aisle. The commander wears slate blue, a color that suits his complexion and thunderstorm eyes. On his arm, the rubies in his knight’s seal gleam.

For just a few seconds, I give in to the heart-wrenching daydream. I picture Henrik’s smile, slightly crooked, growing wider until it reaches his eyes. He’d take my hands during the ceremony and promise forever, and then he’d kiss me in front of the entire court.

But no matter how much I hurt, these thoughts aren’t fair to Lawrence.

Henrik isn’t in my future. He sits somewhere in the audience with Camellia. She’s likely hanging off her prize’s arm like a parasite.

We haven’t seen the princess in over a week, but I’m certain she’s here to witness her present victory—though I don’t believe this is her ultimate goal. Hellebore might be dead, but Camellia has spent too many years dabbling in the dark arts to be trusted. And even before that, she was a miserable person. She’s allowed this wedding for one purpose only: to hurt Henrik and remind him who’s truly in control.

In a week, maybe not even that long, she’ll send an assassin my way. There’s no way she’ll leave it at this, not Camellia. She won’t allow the crown to rest upon my head for long.

But that is another day’s worry. Right now, I just need to walk down the aisle in this massive gown, smile at Lawrence so I don’t humiliate him or myself, and try not to pass out.

It’s better behind the veil. The fabric curtain is a sanctuary, hiding my distress from the curious eyes around me.

At least for now.

With that slow, grating wedding march coming to an end, we stop. My father exchanges words with the bishop, agreeing to give me away.

The voices sound distant, almost like they’re in an adjoining room. Perspiration dampens my skin, making the gown even more uncomfortable. It’s so hot—why is it so hot? Breathing becomes impossible, and the heavy veil suddenly feels suffocating.

Someone takes my hand, guiding me up the steps, and it’s everything I can do not to rip the fabric away from my face.

The bishop begins, “Today is a blessed day. We are gathered together—”

“Just a moment,” Lawrence interrupts from right in front of me.

“Your Majesty?” the man asks, startled.

Suddenly, the veil is swept from my face, and I take a gasping breath like I just surfaced from a lake.

My friend stares at me, his amber eyes slitted with concern. I was right—he’s so handsome.

Lawrence wears his rich, copper hair down for the first time in weeks. His doublet is deep brown, almost black, and elaborately stitched with the phoenix crest in the same silver as my gown. Minda must have spent weeks embroidering the complex design.

Suddenly, Lawrence grins. Lowering his voice, he says, “I was checking to make sure you didn’t send someone in your place.”

I suck in another gulp of too-hot air. “Was that an option?”

The attending noblemen and women stare at us, murmuring amongst themselves, wondering why Lawrence interrupted the ceremony. I look into the crowd to find my father, certain he’s horrified.

But instead, I findHenrik.

The commander sits in the front row—and of course he does. He’s with the princess. Where else would they be?

But I didn’t expect to find him so close, didn’t realize there was a chance our eyes could meet.

Henrik stares back at me, his skin washed of color, his handsome face haggard. He sits with his shoulders slightly hunched, the weight of the day crushing him. He didn’t even bother to shave.

“Clover?” Lawrence says, drawing my attention back.

I look at the new king, not really seeing him, feeling like I’m drowning. The room smells of burning lamp oil, expensive incense, spring flowers, and gardenias that were brought in from southern Dulane. The floral perfume is too heavy in this closed space. It sits in the air, making it impossible to take a cleansing breath.

Lawrence raises his brows. “Shall we…continue?”