“Nothing reveals a person’s character like his preparations for suicide.”

Michal Viewegh

"So, you, Nessa, will be dressed in Lady Mireya's wedding dress. On your head you will wear a wig, as you did during our outings. A veil will cover your face. And you will go to the altar instead of her."

The sun glances into the room, only occasionally yawning behind the clouds. While Mireya’s personal hairdresser works on her hairdo, Loretta, one of our ladies in waiting, entertains those present with her own plan to disrupt the wedding. We listen with great interest. In any case, everyone has put whatever they were doing on hold, and only the hairdresser, who has apparently heard practically everything during her years of practice, continues her work, methodically curling strand by strand.

"And then?" I ask curiously.

To me it was most interesting, because, you know, to me the plan had a direct bearing.

"Then, at the beginning of the ceremony, you lift the veil!" victoriously finishes Loretta. "Dorion will realize that he has been deceived."

A tense silence descends on the room; only the tools in the hands of the hairdresser rustle and jingle quietly.

"And then?" Ilona wasn't afraid to be unoriginal.

"What do you mean?" Loretta is amazed. "The wedding will be canceled!"

"Yes," Ilona agrees. "But who will prevent the Duke from rescheduling the wedding for the next day, only this time making sure to verify the identity of the bride?"

Loretta thinks. She had not considered such a possibility.

"Well," she decides to alter her original plan somewhat. "In this case Nessa will lift the veil not at the beginning of the ceremony, but at the very end!"

She literally glows with pride now.

"At the end?" Ilona asks thoughtfully.

"Yeah!" Loretta nods triumphantly.

"Excuse me, Loretta. I'm sorry to interrupt," I murmur modestly "but I'm just a little curious. In the end — it means after the wedding ceremony is over and done with?"

"Yeah, that's right!"

The lady in waiting is becoming irritated by how slow we are being on the uptake.

"That is, by the time I become the Marquis's wife?" I continue to annoy Loretta with my meticulousness.

"Yes, and that's why he will not be able to marry Lady Mireya the next day!" She finally gets her simple, as all brilliant things are, message across.

Ilona laughs, and then throws open the snuffbox, to disguise further giggles as sneezing. To me it is no laughing matter.

"Loretta, my dear, how about the fact that I do not want to marry Dorion?" I ask softly.

"No?" Judging by her tone, Loretta doesn't think that such a small detail could ruin her perfect plan. "Well, after all, what we are concerned about here is thwarting Lady Mireya's wedding. The wedding will be off. All the other problems can be solved separately some other time."

Another short silence ensues, and is broken by Ilona's loud sneezing.

"Loretta," Mireya takes control of the conversation "this is a very interesting plan. I do not think that we will resort to it, but certainly we will keep it in mind just in case."

This attempt to marry me off in so eccentric a manner, fortunately ends. Chuckling, Ilona takes me aside, while I am still in a state of shock, pressing my hand to my heart and looking in front of me with wide eyes.

"Calm down," suggests Ilona. "Take it easy. Some people just have a wild imagination, but that is no reason to be frightened."

"Well even given the type of fantasies that enter her mind?” I almost had a stroke.

"Do not be so sensitive. What if a man imagines you in his bed, will you become pregnant from that?" snorts my friend. "Tell me, how was the tea party at David's house?"

"Okay, I guess." I shrug. "That is, as usual. Fine."

"So, his mother did not act all high and mighty again?"

I wince at her choice of expressions.

"No, everything was calm and peaceful. She generally behaved as if nothing had happened. As if the previous meeting had never taken place," I shrug. "Maybe her memory is failing."

"I'm afraid not," Ilona retorts. "It seems as though the Baroness really does like you, but she thinks that sometimes it's nice to put you in your place. I am not even sure which one of you first and foremost — you or David. Probably mostly him. You still want to date him?"

"What do you all want from him?" I am indignant. "Are you saying that he is responsible for the behavior of his mother?"

"I'm not saying that. He is responsible for his own behavior. He can't stand up to his mother — isn’t it obvious?"

"Standing up to your parents is not an easy thing to do,” I mutter, generally realizing that she is right.

“There are very few easy things in life,” Ilona continues relentlessly. “If we all were to neglect doing things that are not easy, we would not get very far.”

"In short, you don't like him." I decide to make things clear.

"That is not the important part," my friend grimaces. "The main question is this: Do you like him?"

"Yes," I say, trying to sound more confident than I really feel. "He is one of those who would never stab anyone in the back. He won't lie to me — well, at least, beyond measure. He won't hurt me, won't be jealous, stalk or try to deceive me..."

""Won't", "won't", "won't "," says Ilona at a measured pace, as if reciting poetry. «Did you notice? No word about who he is. Only about what qualities he lacks."

"What do you mean by that, Miss Analysis?" I snort.

"I think that you are too heavily influenced by the experience of your engagement," Ilona says seriously. "So now you're looking for a husband who would be as different as possible from the previous candidate. Meaning an absolutely harmless one."

"So you think that's a bad thing?" I ask doubtfully.

I don’t want to keep arguing with my friend: more likely than not she is right in her reasoning. But if my future husband were to be the complete opposite of the former fiancé, in my opinion, that would only be something to celebrate.

"It's not bad," Ilona shakes her head. "What's bad is that with all those 'won'ts' you don't even consider what you really want. Oh no!" She slaps her hand on her forehead, and then, obviously feeling her information requires more emphasis, slaps her hand on the window sill. "I can't believe I forgot to tell you! You haven't heard the news about Baron Luzhe?"

You would think after such a long time I would be over it, but I still shudder at the mention of his name. I very angrily look at my friend.

"No, I have not heard. Why do you think I care in the least what happens to this bastard?"

"I just thought that specifically this you would like to know. You see, recently he has had an accident."

I freeze, becoming all ears.

"They're saying that he was walking through the woods, when he stumbled and fell into a ravine."

"So what, he broke his leg?" I ask mechanically.

"No. His neck."

"Oh, really?"

Now it is my turn to put my hands on the windowsill and look out the window. The sky is clear and some clouds slowly float above the trees from time to time. How suddenly things can change. What once was an all-consuming problem simply ceases to exist. Strange... And I can still remember very well how I was prepared to die. How, with the thoroughness typical for me at the time, I read books on poisons. And now...

"I know!" I whisper, excitedly raising my head.

"What do you know?" Ilona asks, with some concern responding to such a sudden change in my mood.

"I know how to thwart the wedding!" I exclaim.

"So, Nessa, what's your plan?"

Mireya settles comfortably into an armchair with dark green upholstery and prepares to listen. Instinctively I note that although the chair is not an accessory, it goes perfectly with her red hair.

"Suicide," I answer simply.

"What?"

Mireya frowns and leans forward, turning her head to one side, as if assuming she misheard and hoping this time to parse my words more accurately.

"Suicide." My reply dashes her hopes. "It will be a great way to avoid the wedding."

Mireya sits back and blinks, wondering what she has done to deserve such fortune in the form of two ladies in waiting with wild imaginations.

"Attempted suicide," I clarify, trying to redeem myself in Mireya's eyes, along with the rest of my listeners. "Or rather a re-enactment of such an attempt."

"What do you mean?"

Mireya motions for me to continue. Now she no longer regards my idea with quite the same skepticism.

"No matter how complicated your relationship with the Duke is," I eagerly launch into an explanation, "he still loves you. Well, in his own way," I correct myself, seeing the glances of some of the people in the room. "Deep down. Yes, he is ready to fight with you, to quarrel, to act contrary to your interests, but he certainly does not want you dead. You are, after all, his sister. If he realizes that because of marriage to some Marquis you are ready to commit suicide, then he'll give up on this idea."

"You think?" doubtfully drawls Mireya.

"I am absolutely sure of it."

The Duke's sister shifts her gaze to Ilona.

"I think she's right," Ilona admits. "Although I'm still not sure what the essence of the plan is."

Mireya taps her fingertips on the armrest.

"Perhaps I am inclined to agree with you," she addresses me. "My brother wouldn't want his idea to have such a tragic outcome. So what do you suggest?"

"We will choose the method of suicide which is most convenient for our plan, and arrange things as though you have resorted to it, but unsuccessfully" I enthusiastically explain my plan to Mireya. As if we have caught you in time and stopped you. Only we need to arrange everything to be as plausible as possible. After all, Lord Estley will surely try to butt in. He has to find convincing evidence of a suicide attempt.

After that your brother will cancel the wedding himself.

In the end, Emma arranges the chairs in a semicircle opposite the fireplace; we sit and take turns coming up with various methods of suicide, so as to choose the most suitable one. Each idea is more elaborate than the last.

"You can stab yourself with a dagger," enthusiastically offers Loretta, eyes wide from a mixture of delight and terror.

"Drowning. We could fish Lady Mireya out of the nearest pond."

"There are frogs in there!" Lady Mireya exclaims indignantly.

"Besides, it would be quite difficult to go under in there: the water is waist deep at best," Ilona raises her own objections. "By the way, if not water, then what about fire? Self-immolation. We will very quickly put out the fire. You'll get away with only a couple of burns. Besides, there will be no frogs in the fire. Maybe only salamanders."

"Are you laughing at us?" Mireya and I ask in unison.

"No. I am being ironic," corrects Ilona.

"I think the surest way is poison," I state. "You just need to choose the best option. That will be the easiest way to create a convincing picture. You, Lady Mireya, actually will take some poison, but the dose will be small, not enough to be fatal. No one would be able to tell how much poison had been in the vial, while the symptoms will give a definite indication to the physicians that it was indeed an attempt at poisoning.”

"So what exactly will those symptoms be?" Mireya asks tensely.

"Well, it all depends on the poison," I reply evasively, already knowing that this part of the plan will be met with hostility.

Well, what do you do when you cannot convincingly dramatize poisoning without suffering at least a little? In my opinion, it is a small price to pay for an escape from the unwanted wedding. However, Mireya, it seems, does not share my conviction.

"Which one, for example?" she asks, frowning.

This question does not stump me. As it turns out, my memories of four years ago are still very fresh in my mind. Back then, I learned a lot about poisons. Besides, not only did I read the relevant literature, but I also spoke with some pharmacists.

"I recommend ravenberries. We do not need a poison that's too potent or acts too quickly. Ravenberry juice is just right. To kill an adult you need at least twenty berries. We'll take ten."

"And what will I feel?" Mireya continued to insist on the details.

"Stomach ache, nausea. Possibly vomiting," I explain.

Loretta puts her hand to her lips, horrified. Ilona looks at her with a sneer.

"Then it's out of the question," Mireya shakes her head. "What other poisons are there?"

"You can brew the radont root," I suggest after a short contemplation. "You won't get a stomach ache from it."

"Radont? Isn't it used as a sleeping aid?" recalls Loretta.

"It is," I say. "But in large doses it is deadly. A person falls asleep never to wake up again."

"Then the Duke will not believe that Lady Mireya tried to commit suicide," Ilona ponders. "He will think that she was just having trouble sleeping, and decided to take medicine for it."

"That's why you will need to take a higher dose than usual," I point out. "But, again, not a fatal amount. Of course, there will be some side effects in this case too," I add, glancing at Mireya.

"What kind of side effects?" she asks dryly.

"First, you will sleep for more than a day. Then there will be weakness, dizziness, and spots before your eyes. It may cause nausea."

I spread my hands as if to say: I understand, but nothing can be done.

Mireya purses her lips.

"No, it's no good," is her final verdict. "Look, girls, I have to go visit Lady Demer. Meanwhile, please think how we can stage a suicide without such unpleasant side effects."

Half an hour passes, but Ilona and I are still sitting in Mireya's chambers, each slowly sipping her drink of choice – I drink wine, she favors brandy — and we still cannot think of anything the least bit convincing, and at the same time not accompanied by pain of one sort or another.

"No, I do not understand," Ilona exclaims with feigned indignation. "Why can’t one commit suicide by lying in a bath with rose petals, drinking a glass of strawberry juice, eating a bar of chocolate and dying of sheer bliss?! I am sure that option would suit Mireya perfectly!"

"Because in this case, the world population would just plummet," I reply with a sigh. Then I quite inelegantly pull on my earlobe and suddenly exclaim: "Hey, maybe we should try hanging!"

Ilona stares suspiciously at me sideways: while she is still sitting, I jump to my feet with excitement.

"Are you suggesting hanging Mireya, once and for all solving the problem of her marriage?" she asks. "Or are you suggesting we hang ourselves, so somebody else will have to deal with this problem?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm suggesting!" I even laugh with joy. "We will stage a hanging attempt. As if at the last second we have pulled Mireya out of the noose.

Everything will be real: the rope, the chair on which she is allegedly standing. Even the heel prints on the upholstery. Mireya in tears. And I'll throw such a fit for Estley, as if to say, look what your actions caused! Really, he will have no other choice but to believe me."

"I'm sure you will throw one, but Mireya in tears… I have some doubts," says Ilona.

"I'll bring a few raw onions," I wave away her objection. "She'll cry, don't worry — she can't stand them."

This time Ilona deliberates longer. She drains her glass, and then thinks some more.

"Fine," she says, although she does not sound very confident. "We can try."

We decide to start setting the stage. For the pretend suicide attempt we choose a small room in Mireya's chambers. The main reason for the choice is the hook sticking out of the ceiling. The hook was left there from the chandelier, which has been removed. They never hung a new one, deciding that a room so small could do without. And now came the hook's truly finest hour, as we are going to use it in order to secure the rope.

In practice it turned out that hanging is not an easy feat. It only seems that all you have to do is take a rope, tie the noose, put your head through — and you're done. Unfortunately, each of these stages requires skill, which, as we know, comes only with experience. It turns out that it would take about twenty attempts before one figures out how to hang oneself successfully. However, Ilona and I have a chance to acquire the necessary skills while getting off easy, so to speak. We set to work with alacrity. Rather, I do. Ilona mainly just watches the process, giving advice and offering ironic remarks.

The first noose turns out to be too small, as if I were planning to hang a rabbit. The second one would not tighten. Then it turns out we let out too much rope. As a result, in order to stick her head in the noose Mireya would have to crawl on all fours. Re-fastening the rope is, by itself, not a simple matter. In order to reach the protruding hook in the ceiling, we have to build a whole precarious tower of furniture.

Finally, the loop hangs beautifully over a chair we have placed underneath it. Ilona and I move a little further away and begin to scrutinize critically the site of the potential suicide. Shaking my head, I go back to the chair, move it a couple of inches to the left, and then take a few steps back again.

"I think this is fine," I say , and then look questioningly at Ilona.

"It's hard to say," she drawls. "Do you not think that it is a little too high?"

"In my opinion, it is balanced just right," I retort.

However, Ilona continues to look skeptical.

"Okay, it's not difficult to check."

Throwing off my shoes, I climb on the chair and look at the noose. It is indeed too high. I would have to jump, or at least to stand on tiptoe to fit into it. This is very uncomfortable, even though of course later you wouldn't have to push the chair from under yourself.

"You're right," I admit, frustrated.

Will we really have to re-hang the rope? Again?

"Wait, maybe not," my friend reassures me. "Remember that Mireya is significantly taller than you, and height plays a fundamental role in this case. Perhaps for her this length of rope would do."

"We need to check that."

This time I am not going to judge by guessing. But how can we check it? Ilona, like myself, is shorter than Mireya; thus, she cannot test the height either. The Duke's sister herself would certainly refuse to try on the noose. And of course, we have no desire to involve outsiders in this story.

"Heels," I find a possible solution. "If I wear high-heeled shoes, I'll be almost the same height as Mireya barefoot. We shall leave her shoes on the floor, as if she took them off, and take a different chair, without shoe prints."

No sooner said than done. Ilona glares at me gloomily, as if in disbelief, watching my frenzied activity, as I quickly run to fetch the shoes with the highest heels, put them on, and, not without difficulty, climb onto the chair. Now standing on the soft seat is very uncomfortable. I look at the rope, disturbed by my movements and now gently swaying before my eyes.

"Wonderful!" I state. "It's exactly what we need. Here, look!"

I pointedly fit the noose around my neck.

"Damn!" Ilona suddenly swears, when her skirt is caught on the elaborate andiron.

At the same moment, an unstable heel of mine decides that upholstery is not enough of a reliable support for it, and starts to slide. I sway and realize that I am about to lose my balance. I would like to say "fall down", but no, the prospect of falling down is not what frightens me. But the prospect of being left hanging picturesquely in the old chandelier's place is. Ilona is not likely to come to my aid in time, as she is still fighting the fireplace, stuck in place.

Oddly enough, all these thoughts manage to pass through my mind in a split second. Rather, they are not really thoughts but the awareness of a succession of facts, for which there is not even enough time to transition to words. But my whole life does not at all bother to pass before my eyes.

In the next moment, someone's strong hands grab me and support me, preventing me from completely losing my balance. I only have time to realize that this is not Ilona. He continues to hold me, neatly jumps up on the chair behind me and pulls the noose off my neck before I can figure out what is happening and how to proceed.

"Are you crazy?!" Estley snaps, pulling me to the floor. "How the hell did you even get this idea into your head?"

From the shock, I fail to find the words to respond. Therefore, without reacting to Lord Cameron's words, I just sit on the floor and wrap my arms around my knees, trembling. Estley squats down in front of me and tries to look into my eyes, but I carefully avoid his gaze.

Oh gods, now I have to figure out how to get out of this idiotic situation. After all there is no way I could him the real motives behind what's happening. Another thing that upsets me tremendously is that the whole plan with the suicide attempt goes down the drain. Honestly, it would be strange if two people tried to hang themselves in the same room within a couple of days of each other. And, most important — both unsuccessfully! Rumors would spread that this room is unlucky!

With that thought I burst out laughing. I try to restrain myself, knowing that laughter is not exactly normal behavior for a person who has just tried to take her own life, but could not do anything. I fall silent for just a moment, then let out a sob, and start laughing again. The hysterics last until Estley slaps me across my face. It hurts a lot, not to mention the offensiveness of such an action.

I lose any desire to laugh; I grab the chair and stand up quickly.

"You... You... How dare you?!" I yell, feasts clenched, ready to pounce on Estley, who stands in front of me. "What do you think you're doing, gods damn you?"

"That's better," says the Count, then, not even batting an eye, completely ignoring my righteous anger, and turning to Ilona.

"Lady Dennis, look after her and do not leave her alone for a second," he orders in a rather commanding tone." And call here all the maids, friends, and everyone you're supposed to call in such cases.

He gives me another quick glance, then climbs onto the chair, grabs the rope and yanks it with such force that the hook falls out with a small piece of the ceiling. I barely have time to jump to the side to escape the shower of plaster. Then Estley, apparently having nothing else to say, leaves the room clutching the rope in his hand, the hook trailing on the floor behind him. Ilona, who was also in a state of shock the whole time, stirs for the first time since my rescue and comes closer.

"What were you laughing at?" she asks in a trembling voice.

I listen to the steps dying away behind the door, and then regale my friend with my thoughts about the unlucky room where no one can commit suicide successfully. Fortunately, by the time I finish Estley must have gone far enough not to hear the renewed laughter, this time as a duo.

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The whole book is available here - https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B01GGEWA88