Page 28 of His Bride

That makes me laugh. “Well, there was a man who both looked and spoke to me inappropriately today…”

“Was, being the operative word,” Arthur replies, sending the vehicle smoothly sliding along the streets.

I stare at him, wishing more than ever that I could see his eyes right now. Is he joking? Is he speaking metaphorically?

“What happened to him?”

“He was retired from existence two minutes after you left his store.”

A cold chill runs through me. “You had him killed?”

Arthur glances over at me again, the dark band of reflective glasses giving nothing away. “The penalty for interfering with my bride is death,” he says. “The city will not miss him.”

I feel rather guilty. The man was rude and callous to me, but I don’t think he deserved to be executed for it without so much as a trial. My husband is apparently able to have anybody killed. That’s a power one should not wield lightly.

“Do not be afraid of me, Mila,” he says. “People already know who you are. Keeping you safe means removing those who treat you with even the slightest disrespect.”

“Except Lydia,” I mutter under my breath.

He chuckles. “Do you want me to kill Lydia as an act of devotion to you, my bride?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Careful what you ask for,” he says. “And even more careful how you interact with the world.”

He’s suggesting that the man would still be alive if I had not gone into his store. But I did not know what the consequences of that action would be. I feel ever so guilty now.

We arrive at our destination, a beautiful building not far from our own home. This one has a delicacy and femininity about it. There are even representations of flowers in cut, angular glass surrounding the main door. It is the first indication I have seen that anybody in this city understands that nature exists.

Arthur parks the car and helps me out of it. I wonder if I will ever look at him the same way, now that I know what he is so casually capable of. I should have already known. I’ve seen his scars. It was silly to imagine that they were just on his body, and not on his soul.

He leads me inside, where we are greeted by exceptionally polite servants who presumably want to stay alive, and then escorted into a large and buzzing ballroom, where dozens are dancing and even more people are milling about in conversation. Music is being played by an extensive string band, and waiters move through the crowd delivering a banquet’s worth of food, one bite-sized snack at a time.

Our arrival does not go unnoticed. Wherever Arthur goes, the crowd first parts, and then collapses in on itself around us. Everybody wants to greet us, and I can barely remember any of their names or faces.

“Mila.” Arthur nudges me after dozens of introductions, each of which I have politely smiled through. “This is Emmaline Carpenter; she is the head of the Boston Women’s Society. If you are very fortunate, she will accept you into her ranks.”

Emmaline Carpenter is a woman older than my sister Maraline, but probably younger than my mother, or Arthur. I suppose she is probably mid-thirties. She has brilliant blonde hair curled in an ornate up-do that is covered in thin chains of light and diamond. Her makeup is exquisitely and delicately done. Her eyes are lined darkly with smoky shadow, her lips gleam ruby red. Her cheeks and nose are blended with just a light smattering of cosmetic freckling, and tiny bright diamonds have been placed across her brow. She is wearing a silk dress even more beautiful than the ones I saw at the dressmaker’s today. It is pale baby blue layered with lace detailing, cinched at the waist and flowing out into a broad skirt that makes people keep their distance unless they want to step on her hem.

She smiles at me, and I feel as though the sun is shining on me, even in the middle of the night.

“Emmaline, this is my bride, Mila Darken.”

He uses my first name with his last name, and I feel the want of the ceremony that would have made the transition from single woman to married one feel more real.

She looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my face, searching me deeply. This is not the casual glance or smile of aperson meeting someone they don’t particularly care about. This is like being inspected by someone who you do not want to find you wanting.

“Such a young bride! The Artifice wants plenty of your progeny, doesn’t it, Arthur.” She lets out a laugh that contains enough charisma to make her comment seem more friendly and encouraging than judgmental.

I am horrified by the mention of babies, because it means of course that she knows about the sex—well, of course she knows about that. That is what brides are for, breeding and babies. It’s not a secret.

But it does make me feel as though everybody present is looking at me the way the crowds looked at the new prize heifer at the county fairs we used to attend. I am being evaluated in their eyes as a vessel for Arthur’s heirs, and nothing more.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Emmaline smiles. “I’m teasing Arthur, not you. You’re a perfect Angelish rose, aren’t you.”

“Thank you,” I say demurely. That’s the safest thing to say. Nobody can possibly take offense at being thanked nicely.

Arthur whisks me away to meet others at that point, which I am grateful for, because speaking to Emmaline feels like being examined cell by cell beneath a particularly elegant microscope. I am not prepared for this level of society. Of course my mother tried to ready her daughters for this, but there was a limit to what could be achieved in our area. This is not the same as the hunt ball, held in our stateroom.

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