Page 97 of A Fragile Enchantment

Jack and his guardsman exchanged a few words before the guardnodded grimly. Niamh sank down in her seat. If they found her, they would escort her out. She couldn’t go back to Machland—not until she saw this through. But there were hundreds of people in this cathedral and a ceremony the Guard couldn’t so brazenly interrupt. She’d be fine.

The harpist began to play. The song soared to the rafters, sweet and ethereal and glittery: the announcement of the bride.

Every head in the church turned.

And the doors to the vestibule opened, framing Rosa in a brilliant square of light.

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Gasps broke out. Then, more quietly, sniffles.

With her hand in the crook of her father’s elbow, Rosa lurked at the rear of the nave, beautiful and terrible, dour and elegant, and utterly magnificent. Every thread of her gown, every fiber of her veil, radiated pure emotion.

Memories, all of them bittersweetly painful, washed over the crowd. Even King Felipe’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Niamh did not know what Rosa made of her reception; her features were almost entirely hidden behind her veil. She began to process.

The train of her gown lapped against the floor like cold, dark water. It whispered softly with every step, dragging the petals strewn across the marble floor beneath its tide. Hushed, reverent murmurs followed her down the aisle.That gown,Niamh heard,over and over again. A strange brew of pride and sadness threatened to bowl her over. Was such beauty worth such suffering?

When they arrived at the altar, Miriam approached and took Rosa’s bouquet of red roses from her. She retreated a few paces back, folding herself into a column of shadow, but even from here, it was obvious that she was bereft. Sinclair caught Miriam’s eye across the dais and winked reassuringly. Miriam offered him a brave smile in return. The king placed Rosa’s hand in Kit’s. The grim finality of it twisted like a knife in Niamh’s stomach.

Kit clasped her hand weakly. In Caterlow, the wedding ceremony began the same way. They would drape a rope around their wrists, and strand by strand, they would knit both their hands and their souls together. But nothing happened. Kit only grew paler and paler as he stared at Rosa, blank-eyed, as though watching a well-trodden nightmare play out before him.

With the wedding party fully assembled, the bishop stepped forward. He carried himself with utter self-importance, his nose upturned and his mouth pressed into a solemn line. A golden stole hung around his neck like the pelt of a skinned animal, and a black cap was perched atop his head like a grizzled old bird. Niamh despised him immediately, but she couldn’t exactly trust herself to be a solid judge of character at present.

With a grave air, the bishop said, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of…”

The ceremony droned on. Niamh hardly absorbed a single word of it. Panic and despair made a muddle of everything. There were at least five pauses where she believed something,anythingnew would happen. But each time, the bishop audibly cleared his throat and flipped to another page in his prayer book. The congregation sighed and shifted. Ivory-boned fans fluttered all around her.

Niamh dug her nails into her knee to ground herself. She could hardly process that this was happening, that she washere,sweating in this uncomfortable pew, as the man she loved was marrying another woman. And unless she wanted to mortify everyone in this church—herself most of all—she could do absolutely nothing. Never had she felt more powerless.

Your magic makes me feel things,Kit had told her. No matter what happened, all she could do was pray that he’d feel all the things she did not get a chance to say.

A low murmuring a few rows ahead of her jolted her back to awareness. The Kings Guard had begun to sweep the perimeter of the church, drawing stares and speculation. They made a valiant effort to be subtle, but between their bright livery and the sabers glinting menacingly at their hips, it seemed to Niamh wasted effort. Her skin prickled all over with dread. She tugged her bonnet down over her eyes.

At the altar, the bishop finally set aside his prayer book in favor of a chalice. Unlike anything else in the room, it was elegant in its simplicity: a vessel of pure, unadorned silver. Sinclair had explained this to her last night. The cup was empty, but Kit and Rosa each held a glass vial filled with water. Traditionally, the vials contained honey mead, as golden as the nobility’s divine blood, but Niamh understood the substitution for Kit’s sake. He and Rosa would each pour their vials into the chalice and drink, symbolizing the joining of their bloodlines. And once it was finished, Kit would don his cloak and enfold Rosa in his protection. With that, they would be wed.

The corner of the box Niamh held dug into her hip.

The chanted prayer blurred into nonsense. Kit and Rosa unstoppered their vials. They drained them into the chalice in perfect unison. Neither of their hands shook. Each moment spanned an eternity: Rosa lifting the cup and drinking, Rosa passing it to Kit, Kit barely touching it to his lips before setting it hastily down again.

“We will now begin the recitation of the vows.” The bishop paused for only a moment before fixing Sinclair with an impatient look. “The cloak, sir.”

Sinclair jumped, startled. He scanned the floor at his feet. When that turned up nothing, he whirled around to check the seat behind him. By now, people had begun to murmur openly. Someone stifled a laugh. Others coughed. The Kings Guard drew closer and closer, row by row. Niamh’s heart pounded against the box, hugging it closer.

“The cloak, if you please,” the bishop said, more desperately this time.

Genuine panic flickered over Sinclair’s face. “Just one moment. Sorry.”

Ready or not, she could not draw this out any longer. She launched to her feet. “I have it!”

The entire congregation turned to face her. Niamh avoided Kit’s gaze. It would strike her down like an arrow driven straight into her heart. She did make the grave mistake of looking at Jack instead, which indeed almost struck her down like a rock hurled at her head. Ice ran through her veins, even as her face warmed with humiliation. Niamh stepped over the other people in her row, muttering her apologies under her breath, and walked down the aisle.

A few paces away, she finally dared to look up at Kit. His eyes fixed on hers with a desperate longing. In that moment, no one existed in the world but the two of them. Under the spell of his gaze the music faded away. The crowds faded away.

And then her slipper caught the hem of her gown.

She strangled a yelp. The box slipped out of her hands, and she left her feet behind as she toppled forward. Shouts of surprise echoed through the cathedral, and Niamh thought, distantly, that it would not be so bad to die at this very moment. Together, they seemed to fall through water, slowly plunging toward the floor. Thebox clattered against the marble with a sound as loud as shattered glass. Niamh squeezed her eyes shut and braced for impact, but it never came.

The flowers lining the altar and twining through the pews had sprouted new growth. Vines twisted around one another like a rope and wound around her waist. When she blinked open her eyes, she was floating just inches above the floor.