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It will be interesting to see how this goes.

I wake early so as to have the entire morning to prepare. I haven’t been seen by society at large since before my own wedding. I have tolook perfect for my reentry. I’ve heard it’s in poor taste to wear white to a wedding when one is not the bride, so naturally I commissioned an alabaster dress. It’s long-sleeved, though my shoulders are bare. Pearls trail down my bodice and over my skirts in swirling lines. A V-shaped neckline shows off my delicate collarbones, stopping just short of my breasts. I clip a sheen of fabric to the back of my head, subtle enough for anyone else who looks at me to pass it over, but enough for Alessandra to fixate on its intentional semblance of a veil.

I paint my lips a deep red. I don’t wear gloves, but diamonds drip from my ears and neck. Medora even threads some through my hair, which she’s styled in an intricate coiffure, little curling strands trailing down my neck.

I descend the steps into an empty receiving room. It would appear that I managed to prepare myself more quickly than the fake duke.

So I wait.

And wait. And wait.

Anxiety takes root in my belly. It’s bad enough that I’m nervous about seeing my sister again, especially since Sandros isn’t escorting me. I have no one to show off. Then there’s the fact that Argus wants me dead, Eryx is some sort of monster, and we might be late to the wedding I have zero desire to attend.

I begin to pace, while Damasus stands silently nearby. I consult the grandfather clock against the far wall.

“Damasus, could you check on what is taking so long?” I ask the butler.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He takes the stairs nimbly, and I check the clock once again.

I wish I could take my own carriage, but arriving separately runs the risk of Eryx making a fool out of the two of us. I don’t trust him out of my sight for a moment at a public event. Not to mention, a private carriage ride is the perfect time to work my charms on him.

I tap my foot impatiently. Just then, Kyros walks by, holding a bouquet of flowers from the garden. He pauses when he sees me.

His gaze travels from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. Then our eyes lock.

I wait for a flutter of butterflies to take root in my stomach at the connection, like they have countless times with Sandros.

Only, there are none.

“The wedding is today,” Kyros finally says, as though remembering why I’m dressed so exquisitely.

“I thought it was your day off?” I ask.

“It is.”

“Then why are you picking flowers?”

He looks embarrassed, before saying, “I was going to leave them for you to find later…”

“Oh.”

Kyros is as handsome and kind as ever, but when I look at him, I don’t feel anything at all. How can that be? I thought my mind and body needed time to adjust to the prospect of seeing him as more than a friend. But… I feel nothing amorous when I look at him.

I need to say something. I need to do something, yet nothing comes to mind.

“I hope you have a wonderful time, Chrysantha. May the reunion with your sister be painless, and I hope you’re able to dance. Everyone needs a chance to see you in that dress.”

Then he continues on through the manor. I’m too confused by my body’s lack of reaction to respond.

What the devils is wrong with me?

Damasus descends the steps and takes the spot at my side. “They are coming, Your Grace. The holdup was merely an issue of learning how to tie the cravat.”

It takes some effort not to frown. “The cravat?”

“Yes, it would seem neither His Grace nor his valets have ever done one before. After a brief lesson from myself—and a considerable amount of time spent untangling their previous efforts—they are now ready to go.”