Page 39 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Noose-like.
It was a clear threat. A manifestation of her own subconscious, of the curse of the Dravenhearst brides. Tangible proof of the evil, the sick weakness, lurking within her.
Like mother, like daughter.
Margot’s breathing grew ragged. Her fingers scrabbled at her neck, imagining the rough itch of tightening twine on her skin. Cutting off her air.
She stumbled to the bed, gasping.
Thunderous knocks battered the door.
“Not now,” she whispered, clutching her head, trying to control her breath. She glanced at the dress, billowing in the morning breeze from the balcony. Another knock. Margot closed her eyes. It was all too much.
“Margot, are you nearly ready?” They were the first words her husband had spoken to her today, but he already sounded annoyed.
Margot stuffed her fist in her mouth, trying to muffle her panicked, gasping breaths. She didn’t want Merrick to come in to investigate, couldn’t afford to let him see the gown strung up on the curtain rod. Or worse, her on the floor.
Incapacitated.
Weak.
Hysterical.
“Wouldn’t want to be late,” her husband continued, his voice a bored drawl. “I’d hate to miss an opportunity to watch Father Simmons asphyxiate on his own doctrine of perfection.”
The joke punctured her panic. She exhaled in a sharp snort.
“It’s a beautiful day to be indoctrinated, don’t you think?” His words were muffled by the door. “Or better yet, to take a midmorning nap. Reckon his holier-than-thou homily will do the job nicely.”
Merrick’s persistent irreverence brought a smile to her lips. She inhaled slowly, focusing on his voice, surprised to find how much it helped.
“Margot? Are you there?”
“Y-y-yes…” she called. She rose on trembling legs and gave a sharp tug on the wedding gown, pulling it down. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Swell. Are you ready?”
“Almost,” she lied, tossing the gown into one of the trunks in her closet and slamming the lid. She grabbed a lemon-yellow tea dress at random and shucked off her nightgown.
“If you’d prefer a lazy morning instead, I’m happy to oblige…”
“No, no,” she called back, stepping directly into the day dress. God forgive her, there was no time to procure a matching chemise. “Sunday service is important. The whole community will be there, as will we.”
Merrick mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “a pack of zealots and fools.”
A giggle rose unbidden to her lips.
“If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be—”
She pulled open the door with a flourish. “I’m all set.”
Hardly. Her hair was unbound and loose around her shoulders, her body indecently wanton without proper structural undergarments, and her crocheted church gloves were nowhere to be seen.
“Oh.” Merrick cleared his throat, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You look…”
“A bit undone.” She laughed nervously and waved him off. “I’ve misplaced my gloves and—”
“Heaven forbid,” Merrick teased. He reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “A fine pair of sinners we’ll make, you and I. Bare flesh in church and an atheist liberal on your arm. Holy water won’t save you today, Mrs. Dravenhearst.”
