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Scanning the crowd, I saw no sign of Vasile anywhere. Three empty seats in the front row on Petre’s family’s side sat empty, presumably set aside for his parents and his brother, none of whom were in attendance, and I didn’t understand what was happening.
Had Petre killed his entire family? Could his cruelty be so sharp he took all of them, just to claim the business and the royal title?
Grief gripped my heart. Vasile was dead, I was sure of it, or he would be here. He would have come…
I gripped my bouquet hard and closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of incense and candle wax. Thorns of holly leaves dug into my palms as I squeezed the bouquet; I focused on that pain, channeled it, let it clear my mind. I knew what I had to do. Not for my sake, but for my parents. For their safety and for their future. As for me, I would have time worry about that later.
I hoped.
Opening my eyes, I finally let my gaze fall on Petre. As I did, it was as if all my fear froze in my veins, and turned to courage.
He might try to kill me, it was true.
But not if I killed him first.
With that murderous cold calculation in my head, I took my first step down the aisle. Then another. Then another. But with each step, my resolve began to fade and fear took its place.
Again and again, I let my eyes sweep back and forth across the church, desperately urging myself to wake from this nightmare. Telling myself that it wasn’t real, that the scent of incense and mildew was in my head, that the chill in the air was just me shivering in the bed I still shared with Vasile, that at any moment he would turn and wrap his arm around me and I’d be comforted, knowing that we were together.
But none of that was true. The nightmare was real life, and I was stuck in it for the rest of mine.
If I turned to go, the rats would seize me. If I escaped, my parents would be killed, and eventually so too would I.
I couldn’t bear to think of it. I couldn’t even let my mind gloss over that sadness. Forward was my only choice. And so I took another step down the aisle towards my doomed future life.
Once I arrived at altar, I refused to look at Petre. I would not give him the respect of my gaze and attention. I stood beside him, straight and cold, looking up at the priest, who looked shocked by my appearance, disheveled as I was from what had just happened. Well, let him stare and the dirt and bruises. Let them all know what the man standing beside me had done. The priest cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze, and began to address the congregation in Latin, as was the way of all ancient Praquean royal weddings.
“In nomine patris et fili et spiritus sancti,” the priest droned, running all those ancient words together as if they were one.
He signaled to the crowd to be seated. But as the hush of five hundred sitting guests filled the huge cathedral, one person didn’t move.
My father.
I turned to look at him. This was the part of the service when he too was supposed to step forward to take my arm, then hand me to Petre, symbolically giving me away.
As if he hadn’t already done that very thing months ago at that cursed poker table.
I stared at my him hard. But he met my angry, conflicted gaze with nothing but warmth in his eyes. He took me in, concerned at the state of me no doubt, then for one second, he gave me the smile that I had not seen since I was a child. It was the smile of fishing together on Sunday afternoons, of reading books together, of gobbling up my mother’s fresh ushtapaka dumplings until we were both covered in powdered sugar like snowmen.
In that smile, I saw my dad. The man I loved with my whole heart.
“I cannot let this marriage happen,” my father said, filling the cathedral with his booming voice.
The crowd gasped and chittered with whispered confusion. Turning to my father, I was on the brink of asking if he was sure, if he had thought it through, but before I could speak, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.
Petre came up right behind him, facing me from behind my father, and eyed me with the most venomous gaze.
“You fucking people. You thought I didn’t expect this? Some heroic family bullshit at the last minute?” he hissed. From his pocket, he pulled a glinting knife.
And drove it straight into my father’s back.
In my arms, my father buckled against me, gasping and staggering forward as the church erupted in chaos. Screams from the guests, some rushing to leave, others stepping in to force them to stay. Whether I screamed or not, I do not know, but it was as if everything became dreamlike, slow and shimmery, like we were underwater.
