Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(15)
Matilda’s hands tremble as she pins up Isbe’s short hair neatly and affixes a long veil. The kitchen wench is one of the few servants she can trust with this task.
Isbe was a little too narrow and a little too tall for Aurora’s gown, but with the help of a tailor they managed to make a few necessary adjustments, and now the heavy layers of silk sway against Isbe’s body, the fine boning tightens around her torso, stiff with formality.
Isbe is shaking too, as Hildegarde’s words still reverberate through her. She offered the nun a place to stay and make herself comfortable for the duration of the festivities, but Hildegarde had refused—she took her money and set off immediately to Isolé.
When Isabelle had first heard Aurora’s letter read aloud this morning, she was in shock. Her reaction was reflexive and immediate: Bring Aurora back. This is all a mistake. She hardly even listened to the response of the remaining council or what William thought. But after Hildegarde placed the glass slipper in her hands, something shifted. Shock began to give way to realization.
She had built her whole life until now on the idea that the alliance was contingent on Aurora marrying William. That had been the entire point of her journey to find the prince and compel him to return to Deluce with her in the first place. It never occurred to her that there could be another way. That Aurora could simply and willingly relinquish her title. Isbe never thought one’s identity could radically change overnight.
But it’s as if Aurora has stepped out of her own storybook and into a completely new one.
And now Isabelle has been handed a chance to be queen in her place. She’s worried desperately about her sister’s safety—but what kind of person would she be to receive this opportunity and say no?
Still, the decision was made in such a whirlwind, she’s not completely sure whether she’s doing the right thing. It feels like she’s snipping a thread that once tethered her to Aurora, and to her old life; like she is once again flying backward off a boat and into the roiling arms of the sea.
Meanwhile, the prince waits at the altar in the courtyard. He has been told only that his bride has been found and is even now being dressed for the wedding.
When Isbe descends the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the rail, three servants lifting the train of her gown, she is convinced that in a matter of mere hours she has become someone else. Not Aurora, exactly, but a princess from one of Aurora’s stories—a vision of regality and romance. Gone is the girl who loved a stable hand, who once kissed him in the rush and gurgle of a spring stream. Gilbert’s grip on her shoulders as their vessel swayed, the salt sting on her cheeks—of tears or seawater—his lips against her mouth, his fingers tracing her jaw . . . these sensations live on in her memory, but faintly, like the wash of a distant tide seeping through the sand.
She moves slowly, every step bringing her closer to the choice that will change her life forever. But soon enough she is led through the arched south entrance to the bailey, then down a path of pebbles and strewn petals. The guests’ stares are as tangible as the heat thrown from a hearth fire. None of them yet know the truth.
“Princess.” William’s voice floats above the muffled din of the crowd as she approaches him. She hears a question in his voice, and wonders if he can guess at her identity through the veil.
Her hands are placed in his, which are solid and strong. These are the hands that have spent hours carving fine miniature cannons, knights, and warships out of marble—the hands that have held her in the intense and heady silence of the hearse they shared, in the steam chamber beneath Almandine’s estate, and in the wine caves. These are the hands of her husband. In his wrist pulses the soul to which she’s going to bind her own.
During the ceremony, she is not expected to respond to the priest—after all, ostensibly, she is Aurora, and cannot speak. It is only toward the end of the vows that the priest pulls out the letter Isabelle gave him and begins to read aloud.
A confused murmuring spreads through the crowd.
It’s then that Isbe lifts her veil.
Gasps ring out. But it is too late for anyone to protest.
The priest lowers something onto Isbe’s head. It’s the same crown her stepmother wore for years, the one that would have gone to Aurora had she not left this strange and hasty letter—had she not formally abdicated. The crown is not heavy, but Isbe can feel its cool weight pressing down on her temples.
“Yes,” she says quietly when the priest asks if she accepts this responsibility, accepts the title of queen.
And then, in a blur of intoned prayers and carefully pronounced vows, she answers again, “Yes.”
Then “Yes.”
Then “Yes.”
The feast and celebration are a somber affair—full of worried whispers Isbe is certain are meant to be overheard. She can hardly stomach her serving of roasted boar decorated in caramelized pomegranate seeds. She takes a big gulp of spiced wine instead, letting its heat shiver down through her chest and limbs.
Thankfully, no one stops the prince from leading her away before the dessert course is served.
As soon as they step into the royal bedchambers—newly appointed and prepared for them, having remained empty since the death of King Henri and Queen Amélie—William gently unpins the veil from her hair.
She breathes a sigh of relief.
“What changed your mind?” he asks quietly. They have not had a moment alone until now to speak of it. And yet she finds she is still nervous, that she doesn’t know how to answer.