Page 43 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Dear Diary,

At church, it seems every woman has a baby on her hip. I stare at them, like water in the desert.

I am not just thirsty, I am parched.

—Excerpt, the diary of Eleanor Dravenhearst

“Tea, dearie?” Eleanor lifted the pot.

Margot’s lips were dry. Steam curled as the veiled bride poured for her. She accepted the cup, a faint scratch at the edge of her consciousness. A niggling. The tea was delightfully warm in her frigid hands, but a warning stirred in her gut, hotter than a branding iron.

The baby. Merrick’s baby. Her baby.

Hers to have, hers to protect.

Eleanor, she remembered suddenly, the name piercing through the haze.

Eleanor was not to be trusted. Not with this.

Margot pursed her lips and lowered the mug.

Babette exhaled softly in the seat beside her.

Was Margot imagining the look of relief on her face?

Her dress was pink and full of frills. She matched the tea doilies spilling over every surface.

Doilies everywhere, sliding off the table onto the floor.

Doilies sewn in as ruffles in Babette’s skirt.

Doilies folded into origami shapes and perched, hatlike, atop her red hair.

Doilies raining down from the ceiling like snowflakes.

Margot replaced the teacup in its saucer. “I’m not thirsty,” she lied.

“You’re not today,” Eleanor replied.

From beneath the veil, Margot saw the shadow of her lips twitching. A ghostly smile.

“You’re not thirsty today. But you will be.”