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Gingerly I wipe my hand on my skirt, reaching for the letter again.
I say all of that to say this, however—Sofia, if you have the chance to be free, to escape this life, I hope with all of my heart that you will seize it with both hands. It is the one great regret of my life that I didn’t take you and your mother, and run as far away from it as I could. There are some who will say that there is no leaving this life, and they very well might be right. But I wish more than anything that I had not been too much of a coward to try. If I had, perhaps I wouldn’t be writing this letter to you now.
Be free, my darling daughter. Be all that you were meant to be. Sing, and play, and make music that the world will weep to hear, and remember, above all, the last gift that I gave you. Remember what I told you about fairy tales.
But more than that, Sofia, remember that I love you.
Your father,
Giovanni
For a long time, all I can do is sit there with tears leaking from my eyes, wrapped in a towel on my bedroom floor. And then I fold the letter back into its envelope and slip it back into my violin case, closing it gingerly and pushing myself to my feet.
I walk back to my nightstand, and the two velvet cases sitting there.
Picking up the flat one first, I open it to see a delicate gold bracelet, essentially a looped chain with sapphires set into the ovals. And when I open the smaller velvet box, there’s a matching pair of earrings—oval-cut sapphires so richly blue that they’re almost black surrounded by diamonds and dangling from gold posts. They’re beautiful and look expensive, and well-loved. The gold is slightly burnished in places on the bracelet, as if someone wore it often and touched it.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I reach for the note next.
Sofia,
Anastasia tells me that it’s customary for a bride to have something old, new, borrowed and blue. She also tells me that the necklace you wear, that you never take off, is very old—so I suppose that will be taken care of. Your ring and dress are new, so here is your something blue—a bracelet and earrings that belonged to my mother. You may also consider them borrowed, if you like, although I would like it very much if you would keep them. As my wife, she would want you to have them.
--Luca
I stare at the note and the jewels, my thoughts whirling with confusion. How can the man who brought me home tonight and the man who wrote this letter be the same person? How can he sometimes seem to hate me, to resent me or want nothing other than to break me to his will, and then give me a wedding present of his mother’s jewelry?
Part of me wants to refuse to wear it tomorrow. I could—he won’t see me until I walk down the aisle, and what is he going to do about it then?
But as I look down at the bracelet and earrings, his note still clutched in my hand, I know I won’t. I feel worse than ever, anxiety and confusion churning in my stomach as I gingerly close the boxes and lay back on my bed, knowing that a sleepless night is ahead of me.
It was easier just to hate him. Just to see him as someone keeping me prisoner, a cruel man who I’d been given to against my will. The villain of the fairytale, the dragon at the tower. It was easier when it was black and white.
Now my emotions are a tangled mix of hate and fear and desire and curiosity, wondering what tomorrow will bring and how we’ll go forward after that. The thought of our wedding night makes my stomach clench all over again—now that he’s touched me, what happens next? He said he wouldn’t force me—but what if he doesn’t have to?
What if, in the end, he convinces me to let him?
He awakened something in me tonight, an awareness of pleasure that I never had before. The idea of spending years, if not the rest of my life never being touched like that again makes me ache in a way I don’t fully understand—but the thought of giving myself over to him completely feels just as impossible.
I wish, more than anything, that none of this had happened. Then I wouldn’t feel so lost, so confused.
But it did. And tomorrow, I’ll be Luca’s wife.
Sofia
I’m woken up by Ana’s hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake as the sunlight streams in from the curtains she must have opened, sprawled on the side of my bed. “Wake up, sleepy,” she says with a grin. “It’s your wedding day.”
“Those aren’t really the words I wanted to wake up to,” I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.
“I know.” Ana pushes my hair out of my face, looking down at me sympathetically. “But at least I’ll be here for part of it. I picked up your dress on the way over.”
I can see it hanging on the closet door, wrapped in the cheerful pink and white garment bag from the bridal shop. I push myself up to a sitting position, feeling tired and sore from being tense all night. Glancing over at Ana, I wonder what she would say if I told her what had happened last night between Luca and I. There’s no way I ever could—I can feel myself flushing red just thinking about it. But after so long of hearing about her sexual exploits and her teasing me about my lack thereof, I can’t help but wonder what her reaction would be.
Before she can see that I’m blushing, I get out of bed and quickly walk over to the dresser. But when I open the top drawer, I see that instead of the mostly plain cotton and few pairs of silky underwear that I’d picked out during my shopping spree, the drawer is also full of all the lingerie I’d skipped over, satin and silk in lace in white and pink and blue and red and black, frothing over the edge of the drawer as I open it. There’s got to be thousands of dollars of it just in this one small spot.
“Sofia? What’s wrong?” Ana asks, seeing me tense, but I don’t respond, striding across the room to the closet. When I yank open the door, sure enough, there’s new velvet hangers there with silk and lace robes and matching silk babydoll nightgowns. I stare at them, unsure whether to scream or cry or rip them off the hangers and throw them down the stairs so Luca can trip over them.
I hear her footsteps as she walks over to me. “Oh,” she says softly, seeing the lingerie in the closet and the rest of it spilling out of the drawer. “You didn’t pick this stuff out, did you.” It’s not a question, Ana knows my underwear choices very well. She’s seen me get dressed often enough.
