Page 50 of Summer

“Are you ready?” Sessaly asks. She’s completed my hair, tucking it to a tight updo that will make the wig easier to don. I’d completely lost track of time, too busy with my own thoughts.

“Yes – of course,” I say. I stand and Sessaly moves to the armoire and the wedding dress. Her fingers trace the edges of it reverently, longingly.

“You promise you won’t marry him?” Her voice is so quiet I think I imagine it at first. I glance around the room out of habit. There’s no one here but Sessaly and me. Downstairs, I hear voices, likely the attendants who are going to shove me into the carriage. The voices are hurried. We must be running late.

“I promise,” I tell her.

She holds my gaze for a long moment then nods, helping me into the dress. Downstairs the noise picks up, more voices joining in.

“And you won’t leave Lady Gennelle behind?” she asks. Her fingers grip the fabric tightly as she helps me navigate the layers and folds, cinching me in like it’s battle armor. I stiffen. Sessaly turns my body to face her. “You don’t understand what it’s been like since she’s left. It’s…” she trails off, then shakes her head.

“What?” I pry.

“The duke is a monster. He’s cut all our wages and increased our hours. He plans to fire most of us, I think, to save money. I even heard him thinking of closing some properties, letting them fall into disarray. He’s buying the most…” she laughs. “Dangerous things.”

I knew what Sessaly spoke of. The duke, now free of his daughter to manage the finances, has become even more ostentatious. Two new ships sit outside the estate, expensive monstrosities that take up most of the yard. They had to remove an entire section of the grass, already impossible to grow from seed, to make room for another launch pad.

I heard about the duke’s latest purchase – a motorized contraption that reminds me of a mix between a motorcycle and an ATV on Earth. It’s framed like a two-seater carriage, with a wide pane of glass across the front. It’s loud enough to rattle the windows of the cottage as the duke speeds by, likely with the duchess alongside him.

Since he purchased it two nights ago, he’s made no less than five trips to Celvae for one reason or another. The duchess tolerates the trips, though when she steps out of the vehicle her entire body shakes for several minutes.

“I’m sorry, Sessaly. I don’t know how to help,” I say.

She gives me a tight smile and grabs my gloves. I take them from her, the last thing to dress before I head to the carriage. It stands at the end of the drive, just before the main road, ready for me.

Each step toward the carriage is a funeral march.

First the stairs to the bottom of the cottage, then out the door. The peaceful morning is interrupted by the loud whine of the duke’s stupid vehicle. What is he doing, driving around like that? Shouldn’t they be at the manor, waiting for me? Likely he convinced the duchess to take one victory lap before seeing their son married off against his will.

I grit my teeth and head down the drive. I hope they don’t mean to escort me – that would absolutely destroy the plan. There’d be no place to jump out of the carriage without being seen.

Thankfully the duke shows no sign of slowing as he rockets down the road from Celvae toward the manor. He’s removed the safety glass at the front of the vehicle and instead wears a pair of goggles. Next to him, the duchess clutches at her hair, at her clothes. Her mouth moves as though she’s screaming at him, but her words catch in the air and blow away. The only sound that is louder than the bike is the duke’s hoot as he speeds down the hill.

He rounds the bend toward the cottage and lifts a hand to wave to us. At that very moment the bike hits something – a rock, a ditch, who knows – and pitches. It’s a small move, but the duke overcompensates. He grabs the wheel and jerks it, sending the bike off the main road and toward the cottage.

The next events happen in slow motion.

The attendants run out of the way, avoiding a possible collision from the bike as it careens off the road.

No longer on the road, it hits another rock, sending the front two tires airborne.

When it lands it nearly displaces it occupants. They may have removed the safety glass, but they’re still firmly buckled in.

The bike continues onward, hitting a large hole and rocketing into the air and straight to the carriage.

The carriage I’m supposed to die in.

The front wheel crashes into the side of the carriage. It’s made of wood – that was intentional, so it would burn easier. It collapses easily, the doors falling inward. The bike continues its trajectory, now fully embedded in the carriage.

The exhaust pipe of the bike sputters, a final battle cry before it admits it’s been destroyed.

It’s enough to light a spark.

On the carriage I’ve painted with gasoline and accelerant for a more dramatic explosion.

The attendants are hesitant to move toward the carriage, and that’s likely what saves their life. That tiny spark ignites, catching quickly, and the carriage is aflame.

Then the fire hits the gasoline tank on the bike, and the carriage explodes outward.