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Or hell, I think to myself. The man clearly has a drinking problem.
The drinking thing makes something ping in my brain and has me blurting out the next question before thinking it through.
“Pardon me, Your High—Flora. But are you stalling for time?”
She sits up straight and has the look of someone who’s been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“What makes you say that?”
I smirk. “Because you asked Ilsa to leave the room so we could talk, but you’ve said nothing so far that cannot be said in front of Ilsa. I thought maybe you were bringing terrible news.”
She bites her bottom lip. “Seems you’ve caught me. I am stalling for time.”
The rush of anxiety dries my mouth in seconds. “Oh. I see.” I’m going to be left at the altar. The mean girls from my past will have a field day with this, won’t they?
Flora must be able to read this thought all over my face because her hand darts across the table and clutches my forearm. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry. The groom is here. He just…he might still be a little bit drunk and smell like a distillery.”
“I see.”
“I won’t judge you if you want to postpone things...until he’s feeling better.”
I level her with a knowing look. “Flora. I’m sure whatever date we choose for the wedding won’t matter. He’ll be absolutely ripped the night before, no matter what. Am I wrong?”
She sighs. “You’re not wrong.”
We share a few seconds of companionable silence, and I decide that despite all the drama that comes with marrying into the Haart family, being sisters with Flora will be a highlight.
“I’ve never had anyone quite like you on my side, Flora.”
Her sweet face brightens, and it feels like the clouds have parted and the sun is shining through the gloom. She reaches her other hand across the table and clutches my forearm. “Sister,” she says, not knowing what it does for my heart to hear anyone say those words, “You may think I’m an ally. But with Etienne on your side, you’ll soon realize you had no idea what that word meant.”
I am highly suspicious that she, too, might have imbibed a mind-altering substance.
Etienne? An ally? He may be a perfect specimen on the outside and give me the fanny flutters, but an ally?
Hardly.
* * *
Butterflies don’t even describe what’s going on in my stomach.
I slip my arm through my father’s, and we have a moment alone together before we head down the aisle.
My eyes are trained on the arched oak doors. My other senses take in everything, the scent of wood oil, incense, and roses. So many roses—rose bunting lines the doorways and stained-glass windows.
Someone hands me my bridal bouquet, a simple cluster of white roses interspersed with crystal gems. It’s charming and not my style in the least.
“You’ll do fine, daughter. Don’t you worry,” Father says.
I slide my gaze over to him. “Of course I will. It’s not me I’m nervous about. That boy is liable to cut and run at any moment. My track record with the men in this family is well known.”
My father balks at this, then pats my hand. “Then he’s a fool.”
I look at my father, and it feels like I’m seeing the man, the real man, for the first time. Not the man performing for a board of directors or the king.
He looks at me like…like my dad. The dad who I remember from childhood. The person he was before he married Ilsa, and everything changed. The man who used to let me run wild in the apple orchard.
“But he is already a fool, Daddy.”
