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Though her demeanor is tough, in her gaze I can read her apologies. She’s not the one at fault. I give her the same tight smile I braved for Esme.
Patting her hand, I say, “I know. He’s been more than generous.”
She gives a grateful sigh, as if I’ve taken the weight of guilt from her shoulders. “I understand this isn’t the way you envisioned your life heading, but you will grow to love him. I have a sixth sense about these things and I’ve not been wrong yet.”
There’s a first time for everything, Sophia.
I will never love him.
As soon as I can break out of the castle walls safely, I’m going to flee. Grab my father, and get us out of the country. Maybe we can go back to New York, where we lived before coming to Italy.
But first, I must play the part of the bride.
Standing, I smooth my shaking hands over my dress, a slinky white silk slip gown, the seaming hugging my curves, the back rising into baguette-encrusted halter straps that lead to a black grosgrain bow-topped T-back. It’s nothing I would have chosen for myself, but as I gaze in the mirror, I find it suits me.
“How do I look?” I offer Sophia a smile I hope is kind. She hemmed this dress for me, painstakingly making every stitch by hand when I arrived the other morning, telling me if she left it up to the castle’s tailor, he’d snag the silk with his rough hands.
Tears brush up in her eyes as she gazes at me through her wire-framed glasses. “Dear, you look lovely. Vincent is a very lucky man.”
Taking my arm in hers, she leads me from the room. We make our way through the castle.
It’s a truly beautiful building, a structure built for fairytales. I’ve read so many books, and in every one pictured myself walking along the halls of the castles on the pages. But now, it’s real.
Deep red rugs line the halls. Paintings of the Italian countryside, and the regal ancestors of the family hang from the walls below black iron sconces that hold burning candles. Servants flutter behind me, ready and willing to meet any need I may have.
I’ve dreamed of castles like this.
And now, my dream feels like a nightmare.
Together, we walk down the back stairs of the castle, beneath an arched entrance. My feet pad over the soft green grass of the rolling hills toward the Gothic cathedral style church that sits on the property.
Shaped topiary trees twist up from the ground, lining our path to the stone building. Above the elaborately carved archway, the front of the church curves into five sharp points that seem to be reaching for the clouds, the center one wider than the others, a massive cross rising from its peak.
Where hundreds of curious eyes are waiting.
I will walk down the aisle alone—my father was not invited.
As we walk under the warm sun, a breeze blows by, fluttering my veil. The weather is so pleasant, I almost smile, but then my gaze goes to the dark wooden doors of the church and I tense.
The doors are flanked by guards.
Are they here to keep us safe from rivals, or to keep me from running?
My shoulders stiffen as the guards eye me, their gazes heavy, their jaws clenched.
The guards open the doors, and my knees go weak.So many people.The church is packed, the guests standing shoulder to shoulder, dressed in crisp suits and satin gowns, their faces turning toward me.
Overwhelmed by their gazes, my eyes turn upward. I focus on my breath, taking in the architecture, the domed ceiling with its carving and paintings of angels with feathery gold wings. I’ve dreamed of visiting thisduomo, built in the eleventh century and an integral part of our village’s history, but only the Russo family and their guests are ever allowed on the property. If I was here under other circumstances, I would stay for hours, taking in the beauty of this place, lighting a candle for the spirits of my mother and my grandmother.
But this is not a day out.
This is my wedding.
And I must move my body, force my legs to obey me, make my feet glide down the cold, stone aisle, where, at the end of this sea of people, I will get the first glimpse of the man I am to marry.
The music is beautiful and full, as it echoes through the church. The organ plays the notes of Wagner’sBridal Chorus,but in my heart it feels more like a funeral march, reminding methis is not the happy day I dreamed of.
With trembling limbs and not even a bridal bouquet to hide my shaking fingers, I somehow manage to force my way down the aisle, the sound of the magnificent organ thrumming through my chest.
