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The days dragged on, a never-ending march toward her wedding.

Preparations continued, but Clara had lost interest in the details, no longer caring about learning the particulars of what sauces should be served with which meats, or how many bottles of wine she ought to order each month.

She spent much of her time in her room, claiming to have headaches, monthly pains, anything that might excuse her from having to face the reality of her approaching nuptials.

Sometimes she stalked the gardens, Pim her constant shadow.

Once, she paused at the gatehouse, looking out at the winding path, the wind blowing at her neck, and thought about simply walking off into the unknown.

But then she remembered the silver woman, and she continued on her way within the walls.

It was one matter to think that she had wanted excitement, something new, but quite another to realize that there was magic in the world, unexplainable things.

The lady could not have been human, Clara understood that much.

Was this the magic that Helma had always told her of as a child?

The stories she had loved as a girl had been full of cunning little folk, beautiful maidens and mermaids.

The lady in the moss might have been beautiful, but there had been an underlying darkness about her, a cold threat in her diamond-clear eyes.

She should have told Helma about the woman at the church, but the news of her twin brother had made her forget everything else.

The night before her wedding, Clara sat through a strained dinner with her parents, poking at her food, unable to eat a bite.

She dutifully recited her prayers before bed, and slipped under her covers with Pim curled at her side. He seemed to understand

the heaviness that was pressing around her, offering his body for her to stroke.

As she let her fingers trail through his soft fur, she took inventory of the sounds of the house for the last time. A clock

ticking, the light footfall of a servant going down the hall. The air that was somehow both still yet prickly.

But tonight, there was a new sound.

Clara felt the tremor in the air first, like a single drop of rain the moment before a storm breaks loose. Pim must have sensed

it too, for he was up on his feet in a second, growling at the bed curtains.

She wished very much that she was not compelled to investigate, but she would not sleep unless she did. Slowly drawing aside

the bed curtains, she peered into the dark room.

Jagged shadows cut across the heavy wood furniture, the patter of rain beckoning her to come to the window. Helpless and brave

all at once, she swung her legs over the bed and moved forward, her heart beating painfully in her chest.

And then Clara saw it. Her feet grew roots on the cold floor, her legs unable to carry her any closer. Pim was barking at

the window, fur standing on end.

The apparition’s mouth opened, a black hole of despair, and let out an eldritch scream.

It rained the day of Clara’s wedding.

She should have expected as much, as she couldn’t remember the last time the sun had made an appearance.

Eyes dry and scratchy from a sleepless night, Clara sat sullenly in front of her looking glass.

Fenna’s visit had been a final farewell, and Clara was not sorry that she would be leaving behind her friend’s restless spirit.

What did Fenna want from her? Was it revenge for not saving her?

Clara had been only a child, but she wondered if there was something else she could have done, some way to have prevented her from taking those fateful steps into the water.

The long-ago day had etched itself into her memory, but as she grew older, the edges blurred and ran, like ink fading on parchment.

A knock at the door interrupted her brooding thoughts, and then her mother was sweeping in with Nela behind her.

Wordlessly, the three women worked together to dress Clara. The ritual of layering her chemise, stockings, and petticoats

did little to calm Clara’s nerves though; instead, she felt like a sacrificial lamb being dressed and groomed for slaughter.

She flinched as her mother lifted the pearl necklace around her neck, but Katrina had not struck her daughter for the past

week. Instead, she treated Clara as if she were a ghost, a cold apparition to be avoided.

When Clara was dressed and powdered, Katrina and the maid stepped back, and Clara gazed at the young woman in the looking

glass. She was a porcelain doll, stitched up to her chin in heavy brocade and silks, her face pale and serious. Where was

the little girl who used to run wild across the estate grounds? Where was the young woman who had roses in her cheeks and

stars in her eyes as she had held her lover by the edge of the canal?

“Come,” Katrina said crisply, breaking the spell. “The carriage is waiting.”

With heavy feet that seemed to move of their own accord, Clara descended the stairs, Pim trailing behind her.

Mist shrouded the countryside, broken only by spindly poplar trees and the occasional rook taking flight.

Clara sat knee-to-knee with her parents as the carriage bumped and jostled its way to the church.

It was stuffy and damp inside, their collective breaths fogging the windows.

Her mother had been appalled when Clara had tried to bring Pim into the carriage, and so he had been relegated to riding with the coachman, much to both dog and girl’s protests.

“Wretched day for a wedding,” Katrina said, dabbing her running nose with a lace handkerchief. She had the miserable look

of a drowned cat. Clara nodded absently as she stared out the small window, water running in rivulets down the glass pane.

Somewhere beyond the gatehouse and among the fens lurked moss maidens and water sprites, only waiting for her to set foot

outside. What of Maurits though? Where was he?

In a way she was glad that she didn’t know; it made her obligation to marry Hendrik that much clearer. She would have been

a fool to carry on with Maurits.

Her mother was going on about the fine weather of her own marriage day, when the carriage lurched to an abrupt halt. There

was a shouted exchange—the exact words impossible to hear over the deluge of rain—then the driver was jumping down and coming

around to the door. “Bridge is out up ahead,” he said, water sluicing off the wide brim of his hat. “Do you want to turn back,

or should we go round the long way?”

“Go through the fens,” her father barked.

The driver hesitated before giving a short nod, and a moment later there was more shouting and the whinnying of horses, and

then the carriage was turning around.

The remainder of the journey was slow, with frequent stops required to help the horses navigate the mud. Every time the carriage

came to a grinding halt, Clara closed her eyes. “How are we ever going to get back, I wonder?” she murmured.

Her mother shot her a sharp look. “If we must intrude upon Mr. Edema’s hospitality and stay until the rain breaks, then so be it. In any case, you are not returning with us, so there is little point in worrying.”

Of course. A life outside of the Wierenslot walls had been nothing but a dream for so long that Clara had all but forgotten

that she would not be returning. She had a new home now, a new life. Everything she had always wanted.

When they finally arrived at the church, the rain was running down the cobbles like a rushing river, the square empty of any

people.

As soon as the carriage slowed, Clara threw herself out the door and took a few staggering steps before being sick right there

on the street. Katrina scowled, but did not move to assist her. Helma would have held her skirts back, made sure that Clara

was all right. She wished that she could stay outside and let the rain cleanse her right down to her soul. But she rejoined

her parents, and they walked up the broad stone steps.

The chill persisted inside the grand doors, but once they passed through the nave, warmth began to creep in. Incense wafted

and candelabras heavy with dripping candles guttered, illuminating the painted saints. Everywhere shone with gold, the glittering

mosaics stealing the breath right out of Clara’s throat.

Hendrik greeted them with outstretched arms. “I must admit I was anxious that you would not come with all the rain. I’ve never

seen anything like it before.” His wig was askew, and his temples were beaded with perspiration, yet there was a lightening

in Clara’s chest when she saw him. He was familiar and kind, and in the midst of the strange icons and battering storm, he

was a welcome sight.

“My darling,” Hendrik said quietly as he led her deeper into the church. “You look beautiful. How glad my heart is to see

you.” He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. It was the first warm human touch she’d felt since she’d seen Helma.

As she was a Protestant and not Catholic, the marriage ceremony took place in the vestibule rather than the nave, a subdued event, with the rain on the colored glass windows and gilded crosses lending it an air of gravitas.

A signature or two, some somber intoning in Latin from a disinterested priest, and then they were man and wife. It was done.

She was her own mistress at last. So why did she feel as if she was drowning, the rain outside seeping into her lungs and

robbing her of breath? Theodor shook hands with Hendrik, and Katrina deigned to plant a cool kiss on her daughter’s cheek.

“May it be a productive and fruitful union,” she told Clara. There was no mention of happiness, nor advice for success. And

why would there be? Clara had been bred for being given away, and happiness had never figured into her life before. God wanted

his children to be fruitful and multiply, to be meek lambs; there was no room for anything beyond that. Happiness was duty

fulfilled.