After the lengthy dinner, Meya returned to her guest quarters to rehearse her vows with Gretella, Arinel and Haselle. They then tucked her in bed early.
She'd barely drifted off to a troubled dream when she was woken up by a gaggle of harried maids. They led her stumbling and yawning through the darkness into a wooden bathtub filled with milk and perfumed with rose petals, then proceeded to scrub a layer of skin off her.
Meya was too sleepy for modesty. By the time she was awake enough, she found herself sitting before a rectangular slab of glass about a head taller than her.
Trapped within it was a wide-eyed, freckle-faced girl sitting on the same chair Meya was sitting on. A storm of maids bustled around her like overgrown bees, gathering her hair, decorating her face with color and powder.
"It's called a mirror," hissed Arinel as she tugged a comb through Meya's damp, tangled hair. Meya snapped her gaping mouth shut, remembering Hadrian maids were also present.
Jason once told her mirrors were glass painted with silver on one side. For obvious reasons, her family didn't own one.
Once the last strand of hair had been coiled and the last spot of freckle covered, the maids bowed and retreated from the room. Only Gretella, Arinel and Haselle were left standing by Meya.
"Stand up. Turn around."
Gretella commanded. Haselle helped Meya up from her seat, then stepped back as she twirled round and round. Meya had only meant to twirl once, but the smooth caress of silk on her legs, as her dress danced with her, was intoxicating—until her flower crown flew off her head and smacked Haselle full in the face.
"Enough—enough!" Gretella waved in exasperation as Haselle giggled and fixed the crown back on a sheepishly smiling Meya's head. The old nurse turned to consult the water clock on the far wall with a huff, haughty as ever,
"Very well. We still have time for you to...familiarize yourself with the mirror. We'll give you a call when it's time."
With that, the three women glided away. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, leaving Meya alone with her reflection.
Meya ran her fingers through the long golden locks reaching to her waists, and gave them a playful toss. She raised her long blue silk tunic just enough for the hems to leave the floor, then twisted left and right, studying her figure.
The golden and silvery patterns sewn onto her blue dress shimmered in the morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows. The delicate white veil trailing from her crown of orange blossoms was lopsided, so she adjusted it.
Meya's lips twitched into a wan smile as she admired her reflection. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful enough to walk alongside her sisters.
If only her family could see her now. She'd so love to see the look on Morel's face when she heard about the lavish feasts, flowing silk dresses and warm milk baths Meya was enjoying. Not to mention marrying a Lord. Not just any Lord either—the Hadrian heir, no less!
Meya's savage glee was short-lived, however. Would Dad approve of what she did? He'd never agreed with anything she came up with. He'd frown at how she manipulated Arinel and usurped her identity, but what would he rather she have done? Nothing? She might not even be alive, for all she knew.
Though Meya told herself she was just trying to coax Arinel into cooperating, deep down, she had meant to become the Lady herself. Well, why not? She could do better, much better, with Arinel's name than the Lady herself. It was the chance of a lifetime. To live the life thousands could only dream of.
And, if she survived, more opportunities would come for her to make a name for herself. A day would come when she would strike it big and cart home wagonloads of gold and show Dad that she could succeed. That she could be useful like the others, even as a Greeneye.
Until then, she must live as Arinel Crosset. She must find the dowry. Find it and live.
And yet, Meya frowned, uneasy. Meya had always been prone to jealousy. She had little love for the noble and the rich, but now that she had experienced one such family up close, the Hadrians were pleasant, merry and...normal. And, as far as she knew, they were respected by their happy people for their fair and able rule. They had done nothing to deserve her punishment.
And, should something go awry, there was no telling how many more lives—the servants and the guards—would be lost. Wouldn't it be better to tell the Hadrians the truth and ask for the dowry?
Meya considered it, then shook her head.
No, she couldn't take risks. Would the Hadrians choose that dowry over the lives of twenty Crossetians, sit by and let them die? And even if the Hadrians decided to fight it out with the bandits, they might kill themselves without giving Meya the antidote as revenge.
Even if the Hadrians managed to save both them and the dowry, there was no telling what they would do to them for conniving with bandits without Arinel's consent. The bandits were bound to the pact by poison—the Hadrians had no stakes in this.
This is the only way. Stick to the plan. You must not be distracted.
After one last look in the mirror, Meya threw down her veil and swept towards the door.
----------------------------------------
As expected of the heir's marriage, the whole manor turned up to celebrate. The moment Meya set foot outside the castle's front gate, both hands clasped around a bouquet of herbs and wildflowers, she and Lord Coris were showered with cries of congratulations and flower petals from the crowd lined up on both sides of the sloping road.
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The late morning sun beat down from a perfect spring sky. A red cloth trail on the ground led the elaborate procession of the hosts and visiting noblemen and women, merchants, minstrels, jugglers, acrobats, guards, maids and castle servants down the hill into the village, past the town square and the market, all the way to the cathedral.
The high priest stood waiting in his best robes of white trimmed with gold, holding the church's most handsome copy of the Holy Scriptures in his arms.
After the bride and groom had ascended the rough stone steps and taken their place before him, the priest gave them both a gracious smile and a bow, which the couple returned. The watching crowd fell into a solid silence as the priest heaved open the Scriptures' gold-gilded cover. He cleared his throat and began his speech,
"People of Hadrian, we gather here today, once again, to witness a union which will bring forth joy, prosperity and hope."
The priest's ringing voice was hoarse and cracked by age but heavy with his years and powerful yet gentle. His eyes weren't on the Scripture—they swept across the clearing to study the couple and the people gathered to see their union.
"In the eyes of gracious Freda, there is no greater celebration than the creation of life. Thus, there is no power greater or more terrible in life than that which brought about its creation—love."
"Such power is devious, elusive, enticing and beguiling. Scores of men may claim they have experienced or witnessed love, but a lifetime may not be sufficient for even the most brilliant, learned mind to understand love's one and only true form. Yet, a split-second in the most trying of times may be all it takes for an innocent soul to exhibit true love. The greatest and only love Freda guards with all her might. A love that could not be bought by wealth, coerced by power, explained by wisdom, nor weathered by time."
Lord Coris listened calmly. Meya shifted and fidgeted with her bouquet. All but the most naive fool would also feel uneasy at the sound of those words. Nothing was further removed from true love than this arranged marriage. Not to mention the little-known fact that the bride wasn't even the real one.
The priest, however, went on with unrelenting passion,
"Wrinkled and learned I may seem, I remain powerless and humbled before love. I have insisted over the years, 'tis beyond me to bless these young souls. Only time will tell. Only Freda herself shall determine whether it is a love worthy of her protection—or guile deserving of Fyr's damnation. I pray for your union to be one of pure and unconditional love, for your vows to be devoted and honest. Only then, will you find Freda's divine blessing of eternal happiness awaiting you at the end of your trials."
A heavy, sacred silence blanketed the crowd. Meya averted her eyes in shame as the priest studied her and Coris. A chill swept down her spine, even with the warm spring sun shining overhead.
Meya never did like priests. Even when you weren't a devout worshipper, you'd feel some fear anyway with all their threats of eternal damnation from evoking the wrath of goodly Freda in some trivial manner.
The priest sighed softly and bowed his head to consult the Scriptures. He looked at once decades older, tired and miserable. It was as if, for decades, he had stood there delivering the same words of hope he once believed in, joining countless couples and blessing them, only to see them fall apart. It seemed he already saw where they were headed. Meya felt sorry for the old soul.
The priest cleared his throat, signaling the bride and groom to turn and face one another,
"Corien Alexis Hadrian, do you swear to take this woman as your wife? To love, protect and honor her, be it in health or sickness. To remain solely honest to her until death do you part?"
"I, Corien Alexis Hadrian, shall take you, Arinel Annetta Crosset, as my wife. For better or for worse. Through joy and through grief. In health and in sickness. I shall love and cherish you until death do us part. I swear to the divine grace of the goddess Freda."
Lord Coris recited, slow and confident, not stumbling once, his silvery eyes boring straight into hers. Meya's hands trembled under the crushing weight of reality. She heard the priest's voice as if from far away.
"Arinel Annetta Crosset. Do you swear to take this man as your husband? To obey, serve and honor him, be it in health or sickness. To remain solely devoted to him until death do you part?"
"I—"
I pray for your vows to be devoted and honest. Only then will you find Freda's divine blessing of eternal happiness awaiting you both at the end of your trials."
Meya faltered as the priest's damning blessing echoed at the back of her brain. She gulped moisture down her parched throat, feeling the eyes of hundreds upon her. Coris frowned, and panic coursed through her. She avoided his eyes and tried to speak, but her lips had transformed to lead.
The crowd murmured and fidgeted. Meya's spine grew colder and colder. She jolted as a cold hand clasped around hers and squeezed it. She looked up and found beautiful silvery eyes. Still, the sincere kindness within only made her tremble harder. She looked away again.
Eternal happiness or whatever, you are the one to decide. Not Freda's blessing. And it's not as if you're swearing with your own name. It won't be binding.
Meya gritted her teeth to calm her failing nerves, then forced out a jittery, hearty voice,
"I, Arinel Annetta Crosset, shall take you, Corien Alexis Hadrian, as my husband. For better or for worse. Through joy and through grief. In health and in sickness. I shall love and obey you until death do us part. I swear to the divine grace of the goddess Freda."
Meya let out a small sigh and let her spine curve. She didn't dare meet Coris' eyes. Meya had been a liar and lawbreaker all her life, but deceiving people who have done you no wrong was never easy. Yet, should she waver now, it might be the last thing she ever did.
The onlookers seemed to accept her insincere vow—the murmurs died to be replaced with sighs of relief. The priest delivered his verdict in his ringing voice,
"May the blessing of Freda be upon you both, and may you remain united by her hands forevermore. My lord, you may now kiss your bride."
The old man shone Coris a benign smile. Meya froze, eyes wide in horror.
She'd never lip-kissed anyone before. What if she bungled it and Coris decided he didn't like her? What if her breath stank?
As Meya stood rigid in dread, Coris drew back her veil. He leaned in, a hint of uncertainty in his gray eyes. Meya closed her eyes, waiting for the impact, praying nothing would go awry.
Soft, dry, joltingly cold lips brushed hers in a brief feather-light kiss. A torrential downpour of cheers and applause rained upon them from the circle of onlookers.
Meya opened her eyes. Coris straightened, his gaunt face graced with a gentle smile as always, as flower petals showered them. The cold of the kiss danced upon Meya's lips, and her cheeks burned. Pale tinges of pink blossomed on Coris' cheeks. He ran his fingers over his mouth, then jerked them away, his smile sagging.
"Cold?" Meya whispered.
Coris grew a shade paler, and Meya felt like biting her irrepressible tongue. For the first time, his confident, calm silvery eyes flitted about restlessly. An inexplicable feeling rushed into Meya's heart, and she decided with the barest of hesitation. She leaned in and captured his cold, lifeless lips with hers.
She didn't imagine it. Coris' lips were just as cold as his hands. His lips seared, but she held on, warming them with heat from her own. When the chill receded, a strange sweetness sent tingles through her body. Everything around her—the crowd, the cheers, the birds—had fallen silent.
It was a moment as brief as a breath yet as long as a lifetime. Meya's head felt blank and light. All she registered was the feel of Coris' lips moving upon hers, the cold of his hands on her waists, the faint perfume of roses from his hair, the sour reek of acid and blood in his breath.
They drew away to catch their breaths. A drop of water clung to Meya's cheek, but it wasn't hers.
Coris smiled. He caressed her lips with his thumb, touched it on his lips in turn, then whispered with a laugh,
"It's warm now."