Once. Again. Again. How strong is that mirror, do you think? Would it break given enough force? Most mirrors would. I doubt the mirror here in the bridal suite is made of bulletproof glass. My head is getting sore from all the contact. My head, against the mirror.
Skin against skin lower down.
“Once every day,” he rasps. “Once every day for me, and your father won’t be on the street.”
Maybe I’ll just swallow it.
The handkerchief, not the mirror.
Maybe I’ll just let it fill my throat until there’s no more room for air. There’s not enough air already. I’m sure that’s why I can’t see.
Except.
He’s—
Fumbling.
Distracted.
I feel it before my vision comes back, the uncoordinated pushing against me, like he’s had too much to drink. He’s taking so much pleasure in this act that it’s making it hard to stand up. My uncle has to have assistance.
Both hands in the dress to keep himself upright. Both hands. That means I have one hand free. My cheek is pressed against the countertop but I can move my head if I try.
The dress is helping him stand but it’s also helping me.
For fucking once.
I get a hand to my mouth and yank out the handkerchief, drop it with a wet slap to the floor, stand up, stand up, stand up. Backward. If I can get him off balance then I can get him away from me and I shove hard at the mirror.
It’s enough. It’s enough for the moment.
I’m wheezing, desperate for air. Once every day. It won’t be once every day. There are ways to keep people in their place. If I go into that house I won’t come back out.
Turn around.
I turn around and put one hand on the countertop to brace myself. He won’t get me over it again. “No,” I rasp. “We’re not married yet.”
He advances, pants still undone. His face says I’ll teach you a lesson.
I put up both hands. Turning around was the difficult part. He knocks my hands out of the way, crushing the dress against me, and gets those fingers around my face. The kiss makes my stomach turn. He tastes like cigarette smoke and disinfectant, somehow, and it’s a lick more of a kiss. Right. This is the lesson. This is once every day. This is the rest of my life.
There’s a bold, insistent knock at the door, and I push with both hands against the front of his suit, throwing him off balance. My face throbs. He’s been holding me too tight. He got his claws into me.
The door opens. My uncle scrambles for his pants. I don’t have to scramble for anything. The weight of the skirt has pulled it down.
A woman at the door.
Petite. A skirt suit. I have no idea who she is, but she takes in the scene and instead of shrinking away she strides into the room on sharp heels. “Mr. Lowell, you’re wanted upstairs. I have tea for you.”
She does. A china teacup is cradled in her palms. Steam rises from the rim. How did she get it here without spilling it?
My uncle finishes zipping his pants. “Tea,” he scoffs. “We’ll need a minute.”
“Tea,” she repeats, going so far as to put the cup in his hands. He just had his hands up my skirts, but my uncle takes the tea. Who is she? The suit is too nice for her to be some freelance wedding planner. Her hair is so perfect, swept back and pinned, and she looks fresh. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. Fresh, like a newly bloomed flower.
But there are pointed edges, too. Her makeup is professional, almost airbrushed, like she has recently stepped out of a magazine shoot. She can’t be tall enough for that, can she?
“The priest wants to meet with you now,” she says, and her smile is so indestructible that it reminds me of Zeus. Only her eyes are the opposite of his. Silver instead of gold. “He’s in the lounge upstairs. An impatient man, if you ask me.”
I don’t know why my uncle backs down. Why he takes the tea and goes to the door with a scowl.
“Excellent,” she says. This woman. This wedding planner, or wedding planner’s assistant. I didn’t know there was a wedding planner. She lifts her wrists, shaking the sleeve of her suit jacket to check the time. “If you hurry, the ceremony can begin on time. All your guests are waiting.”
My uncle glares back at me one last time.
Then he’s gone.
The model turned wedding planner sticks her head out into the hall, her eyes tracking him. His footsteps retreat, then echo up the stairs, and then those are gone, too.
My hand cramps. I’ve been holding the countertop top too long.
“All right.” Her heels click on the floor, all the way back to me, and then she reaches around to where my bouquet waits on the countertop in a stand meant to support its weight. She lifts the flowers easily and pushes them into my hands. “There. That’s good. Are you ready?”
“If you’re taking me to the wedding I’d rather die.” The words don’t sound right, garbled somehow, but they must be, because her eyes go wide.
“No. We’re getting the hell out of here.” She shakes her wrist again, and her wrist is empty. There was never a watch. “But only if you hurry.”
5
Brigit
My head is no longer attached to my body. I’m floating above it. It’s a miracle I’m walking, a miracle that I’m following her out of the room and to the left. No one let me roam around the cathedral when we arrived early this morning.
I’m at her mercy.
And the tea—
I know about tea.
I’d be laughing if I could let it happen but my skin is on fire and it’s also freezing and I wish I’d thrown up on the gown, honestly, it was over yet.
“Who are you?” The woman who is me says to the wedding planner.
“Persephone,” she answers. She’s brisk, professional, and every other step she takes makes me believe she really is a wedding planner. A smile like a new spring day lights up her face. “I’m surprised Zeus didn’t mention it.”
“He did,” I say woodenly. “Once over dinner.”
A sharp look in my direction. “Just dinner?”
This time, the laugh that escapes me is wild, bouncing off the ceiling and running ahead of us around the next turn. “Not just dinner.”
What did he say? I can’t remember. It’s the name of his brother’s—girlfriend? Wife? Conquest? It wasn’t clear at the time, only that he was jealous. His jealousy was a thundercloud in golden eyes. He hid it right away.
The odds are very, very slim that this is a different Persephone.
Which makes no sense.
I can’t fathom why she would be here and he is not until I can fathom it. Another deal. Another trade. He would do that. He would trade me from my father to his brother and wash his hands of me.
Wouldn’t he?
I don’t know that I’ve stopped until Persephone takes my elbow and pulls. I don’t resist her. My heart is its own runaway bride, trying to get free, and if this is a trap—if she’s a trap—then I’m screwed. I’ve never been more screwed in my life. I’ve only ever seen the bridal suite here, because my father hustled me in through the front doors before the sun rose.
“Where is he?”