After a few hours’ fitful sleep, Beatrice awoke late the next day feeling somewhat restored and not at all pleased about it. Her breakfast was brought to her by Suit, as she’d expected it would be. She had yet to dine with the pack, and was beginning to wonder if they ever ate together at all. The meal looked rich and smelled delicious, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat much of it…fearful of what might happen should she regain too much vigor.

The light rain was building into another storm, though it wasn’t quite enough to comfort her. She’d had her fill of solitude at that point, and longed for human company. But she knew from last night’s planning that Gray was still in the process of performing Darcy’s procedure just then, and all the others were at his service. Save Jemison, that is—who’d declared that Victoria would grow up “oddly” if they left her too often in the care of skeletons. He was spending his day chasing the little terror about the manor. But the Tiger shifter flustered and intimidated her, and the thought of interaction with her future daughter was as yet quite overwhelming.

So, when she’d done picking at her food, Beatrice removed herself to the top floor study. A small fire of fragrant bark and fir cones crackled in the hearth already, and her gaze clung to it as she settled in. But the books she’d gathered sat heavy and closed in her lap, manuals for mages of all kinds save her own. The others promised her that when it came to power suppression, the principles were all the same. And last night, she’d read every relevant chapter over and over and over again, until the information echoed in her mind without her meaning it to.

She’d intended to read it all again anyway, but all she could seem to do was sit in her dread and anticipation and dwell on what was to come, instead.

She had agreed to the plan of her own will. The alternatives were not ones she was willing to consider. Things like begging refuge in an unallied kingdom and hoping for the best when the worst was most likely. The whole prospect was no less nerve-wracking for her having consented to it. When all was said and done, though, she and Darcy would have but a few hours together in their wedding bed. Just enough for their scents to mingle thoroughly on the sheets as proof of consumation. Then her new lady wife would be bound for the capitol, and she for her second wedding day…assuming all went as planned.

When a knock sounded at the door, she nearly leapt from her seat as she rushed to set the books down and answer it. At her nod, the Suit moved to open it for her, revealing Charles at its other side.

His expression was difficult to read. He’d pulled loose his cravat and was twisting it in his hands, his spirit stone just barely peeking up over the loose collar of his shirt.

“Lord Charles, what is it? Is the procedure over?”

“It is,” he said, his mouth drawing into a grim line for a moment. “It…did not go perfectly.”

Beatrice’s heartbeat tripped forward till it felt as though a bird were trapped in her ribcage, flapping to free itself.

“Not perfectly in what way, my lord?” Her tone was sharp enough to surprise even her, and Charles’ frown deepened, brows knitting together over the high bridge of his nose.

“According to Gray, there was too much of which Darcy was all too keen to forget. So when he went to remove the targeted memories, a whole lot else came along with them.”

Beatrice gasped, hands flying up to her mouth.

“How much more has she forgotten?” she asked, dragging her hands down to clutch at the fabrics of her skirts.

“Almost eight years.” Charles took a deep breath. “He’s not sure if he’ll ever be unable to undo it. Fortunately, she has an arsenal of spirits to silently council her in what she needs to know. But she was a very different person back then. When she is not play-acting at the Darcy she has become since that time, I think you will find her…most changed.”

“Oh, my lord! I am so sorry. What a terrible thing to happen…“ and it’s all because of me.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Baraclough. She’ll still go through with the marriage.” said Charles, mistaking the cause for her distress. “The spirits have given her the messages she left for herself, and even this version of Darcy hates it when her orders go disregarded.”

“Will I see her soon?”

“I’m afraid she’ll be…reorienting herself for some time yet, and it’s best we see that through before she meets you. I must return to assist, but I’ll come back for you when it’s time.”

Beatrice stared at him, aghast.

“But wait, my lord. Am I to meet this new Darcy at the altar?”

And I thought I could be no more terrified.

“My apologies, Ms. Baraclough. Truly, I—” something changed in his eyes and he faltered. “I must go,” he finished in a rush. “I will see you at sundown. Excuse me.”

He left her blinking in distress and confusion. She glanced inquiringly over at the Suit, who shrugged.

“Well,” she said, sighing. “At least I have you, sir. I suppose I’d best start getting ready.”

The pair retreated once more to her room, where Beatrice flung open the wardrobe even as she wondered at however she’d manage without her sisters’ help. But much to her surprise, the Suit was quite adept with its big, gauntleted hands—helping her lace the back of her dress and to do her hair both. Darcy had told her not to bother with formal attire for the occasion, and scathingly, too. But that only made her more set on it.

The gown she’d chosen was, of course, the very same she’d worn to debut. After all, her betrothed wouldn’t remember it even if she had ever seen it, and it was the loveliest she owned.

I’ll be damned if I let that wretch rob me of fancy dressing on my own first wedding day.

Studying her reflection, she tried not to cry for want of her sisters and regret at the thought of damnation. She hadn’t yet felt another twinge of power, but she was now well appraised of the methods by which it could be diverted. She only hoped she’d prove adequate to their execution, lest she find out all too soon whether Fox had truly damned her.

Then there was a knock at the door. The hour had arrived.

“One moment,” she called, taking a final look in the mirror. She’d forgotten a necklace, and her foxstone glinted uncovered on her clavicle. Her hand hesitated over the layered pearls laid out over the vanity, but then fell away. She went to answer the door with her stone bared, because when it came down to it, there was nothing she owned that was more lovely.

The manor’s chapel was surprisingly full. Easily enough done, as it was quite a small space—though its ceilings were high and vaulted. The rich jewel tones of the stained glass “windows” flickered patterns across the floor, lit from behind by lanterns. No natural light reached this place, for it was carved directly into and of the blue stone of the mountain.

The skeleton thralls that filled the rear pews were almost lovely, painted in that rainbow glow. And the living occupants at the front were lovelier still…all of them dressed in finery, joining her in her defiance. There was Charles, Jemison, Arron—who had yet to utter a word in her presence—and of course, Victoria. She’d had to be convinced that Beatrice was over her horrible sickness and not at all contagious, but seemed relieved of her fears as she twisted to watch the bride’s progress down the aisle. Archimedes the horse thrall stood off to one side, a nightmare specter awash in fairy light with roses braided into what was left of his hair.

Beatrice clenched her Suit’s arm tighter, and could almost swear it squeezed her a bit back. The occasion overwhelmed her, yes…but so too did the mingled scents of Darcy, Arron and the others in so close a space. There was a heady, dizzying, effect to it that reminded her a bit of the time she’d accidentally stumbled into a poppyvial parlor. She hadn’t tried the stuff, of course—but the stray vapors had gone to her head nonetheless.

When finally she allowed her gaze to find Darcy—standing beside Gray at the altar—she nearly tripped forward in astonishment. Against her own word, the knight was dressed in a fresh-looking suit of the finest cut and boots that were polished to a glossy sheen. Even her hair was newly and artfully cropped. But her transformation went further than mere cut and attire. The dusky circles beneath her eyes had lightened to a faint lavender, as though she’d finally slept for the first time in years, and she held herself differently. Just as upright, but somehow less rigid.

Darcy’s amber eyes went wide as she took in the sight of her bride, her lips curling up at the corners while Beatrice and her Suit drew closer.

And then they were there, at the altar, and her guardian was handing her up to her betrothed, and it was all happening so fast.

“Ms. Baraclough,” said Darcy as she gripped Beatrice’s trembling fingers and flashed her a smile nearly as dazzling as that of the diamond-toothed beast she’d so recently slain. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”