Page 78 of The Curse and the Silver Rose

Amelie braided her sister’s hair in an elaborate style and arranged tiny white freesias around the crown of her head. On Colette’s face, Amelie applied a hint of rouge to her lips and cheeks. To complete the look, she slipped a pair of diamond drop earrings into Colette’s earlobes, gifted by Laughlin’s mother.

“This is perfect.” Colette admired the result in the mirror of the dresser. “Thank you.”

“Are you ready for the gown? The ceremony is in twenty minutes. Although, you are the bride, so you can be late if you like.”

Colette swiveled on the stool. “I do not wish to be late! I want to marry Laughlin right now and wait not a second longer than necessary.”

Amelie laughed. “Let’s get you ready then, shall we?”

She helped Colette into the sapphire blue dress. It was an elegant silk gown, worn by their mother on her own wedding day, with gold buttons lining the bodice and sleeves. The shade of blue contrasted perfectly with Colette’s shiny blonde braids.

Amelie fastened the last button, then stood back. Tears came to her eyes as she watched her sister turning in front of the full-length mirror. “Oh, Colette. You are exquisite. Laughlin is truly the luckiest man in the world.”

Colette faced her sister. “I am so glad you are here.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Is it time to go down yet?”

Amelie shimmied into her simple pale-yellow silk gown. “I will help you into your shoes. Then, I shall go and find out.”

The wedding ceremony passed in a flurry of happy tears, sweetly sincere vows, and flower petals as confetti. Even the usually stoic Laughlin choked up when he saw Colette walking down the aisle on Raphael’s arm. As the afternoon gave way to dusk, and the ceremony turned into the reception party, the newlyweds scarcely took their eyes and hands off each other, moving as a single entity.

The lanterns in the trees cast an ethereal glow over the party. A boy from the village played the violin, accompanied by his sister on a silver flute, while the guests danced. Amelie’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and her head was very full of the new names and faces of Laughlin’s relatives and close friends. As much as she enjoyed the reception, it also made her just a little bit wistful for the peace and solitude of Castle Grange.

She stood at the edge of the party, sipping champagne, watching Colette and her new husband dancing.

“Beautiful couple, are they not?” asked a petite, grey-haired woman. She wore a splendid burnt-orange velvet dress and smoked a pipe.

“They are, Philomene. And how are you? I’ve not seen you since I returned.”

“I am grand as can be. The cottage has good soil, good trees, good magic. One can not ask for much more.” Philomene exhaled a plume of white smoke. “But how are you?”

Amelie frowned, trying to divine the correct answer. She was happy for Colette, of course, but a deep, persistent sorrow also dragged at her heart. Even when she was distracted, like during the commotion of the wedding, the sorrow persisted, waiting.

Much like her father, she realized with a start, after her mother died. Even in happy moments, he was veiled in sadness. Despite her efforts to avoid such a fate, had she run headlong into it, regardless? Perhaps even because of her efforts to avoid it? What a cruel irony that would be.

“I am feeling a bit adrift, to be honest, Philomene.”

The older woman nodded. “You are thinking too much, probably.”

“I do not know what I think. That is the problem.”

“Forget what you think, then.” She waved her hand. “Listen to what you feel.”

Amelie sighed. Decoding her feelings was an even more daunting task than her thoughts. Had she done the right thing in leaving Davron and Castle Grange?

Not that he gave her a choice. In that respect, what she felt did not matter. He ordered her to leave. Both of their safety depended on her continued absence.

That was life, she reasoned with a heavy heart. One had to make difficult choices, and then live with them. This was probably for the best. What sort of a union began as a crude bargain between brawling, drunken men, anyway? What had she expected? Some great love story?

Her morose thoughts were interrupted by a large, masculine hand touching her upper arm.

“Excuse me,” came a deep, velvety voice. “May I have this dance?”

CHAPTER 33

Amelie peered at the handsome man who had spoken.

“Oh,” she replied. “Uh?—”

Philomene took the champagne flute from her hand. “I’ll have this, Amelie. You go and dance with this fine lad.”

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