Page 20 of The Villains We Make

“Whatever you say, whatever you promise, whether I believe you or not, I have no choice but to consent.”

I can’t give her a choice. Doesn’t she see that?

She shakes her head, and the way she looks at me wounds worse than her words did earlier. But I can’t think about that now. Can’t focus on that. Because saving Ophelia is what matters and if I need to be the villain to do it, so be it.

“Say yes, Ophelia.”

She looks from me to Father Emiliano and, after a long moment, closes her eyes and nods.

Father Emiliano sighs a heaving breath and squeezes her shoulder as he makes his way to the altar. Lourdes follows him, and we turn to face that crucifix. Father Emiliano begins the ceremony.

7

OPHELIA

My mind whirls. My father was attacked. Why and by whom?

A sound comes in the distance. It grows louder. A helicopter. I glance up at Silas. Could it be the police here for him? And if it is, how do I feel about it? Probably not how I should feel.

“Do you, Silas, take Ophelia, to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to honor her all the days of your life?” Father Emiliano asks.

I notice one word is missing.

Love.

He isn’t promising to love me. What he told me earlier, that he’ll marry for love, why did he say that? Why say it at all?

“I do,” Silas says.

Father Emiliano turns to me and repeats the question. I don’t look at Silas when I nod and mumble my I do.

“Now that you have committed yourselves to one another, I pronounce you husband and wife. That which God has brought together let no man put asunder. You may kiss the bride.”

I look up at Silas, and Silas looks down at me, but in this moment, we are further apart than we’ve ever been. We don’t kiss. This isn’t a wedding where the bride and groom kiss.

The helicopter sounds like it’s right outside the door.

Silas checks his watch, nods to Father Emiliano. “Let’s sign what we need to sign,” he says, and from a folder in the first pew, Lourdes takes out the marriage license and a certificate. I sign my name.

“It’s done,” Father Emiliano says.

Silas nods. “Thank you. Both of you.” He turns to me, but I can’t look at him. “Let’s go,” he says. He wraps his arm around my back, and we walk to the chapel exit.

Before we open the door, someone opens it from the outside and I gasp, expecting the police, expecting an army to bear down on us. But it’s not that at all. Instead, a man who looks somewhat familiar smiles to Silas in greeting.

“Hamish. Right on time,” Silas says.

“We’re ready to go when you are,” Hamish says.

He nods and must remember his jacket because he goes back for it and drapes it over my shoulders. I hug it around myself. It’s bitterly cold and the choppers blades are whipping up the air heavy with rain. We step outside and in the noise of it all, Silas stops short, stopping me, too. I see what it is that’s caught his attention.

A single white feather floats in the air before us.

I watch Silas, who stands, mesmerized as it falls. It’s the oddest thing. When it lands on the ground at our feet, he bends to pick it up.

Wordlessly, I watch.

He studies it with reverence then gently, so very gently, he closes his hand around the feather and pockets it. He glances at the grave in the far corner of the lot, the angel’s wings there, the top of her bent head. He then wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. “Come,” he says.

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