I could see the snort rising to her face, but she resisted, kicking a clump of sand at the birds instead. They scattered with cries of alarm. A lump rose in my throat as the dove took flight.
“I will.”
The Archbishop continued without pausing. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” He paused, and every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for the next line. As if reading my thoughts, he cast me a scathing look. My cheeks flamed once more.
“For as the Lord God says”—he clasped his hands and bowed his head—“‘two are better than one . . . For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up. And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him. A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”
He straightened with a grim smile. “It is done. What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. We shall sign the certificate of marriage upon our return, and the matter shall be settled.”
He moved toward the waiting carriage but stopped short, turning to scowl at me. “Of course, the marriage must be consummated to be legally binding.”
She stiffened beside me, staring resolutely at the Archbishop—her mouth tight, her eyes tense. Heat washed over me. Hotter and fiercer than before. “Yes, Your Eminence.”
He nodded, satisfied, and stepped into the carriage. Jean Luc climbed in after him, winking. If possible, my humiliation fanned and spread.
“Good.” The Archbishop snapped the carriage door shut. “See that it’s executed quickly. A witness shall visit your room later to confirm.”
My stomach plummeted as he disappeared down the street.
Part II
Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.
Little by little, the bird makes its nest.
—French proverb
Consummation
Lou
Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine rose up before me, a sinister specter of spires and towers and flying buttresses. Jewel-toned windows leered in the sunlight. Rosewood doors—carved and embedded in white stone—gaped open as we climbed the steps, and a handful of Chasseurs spilled out.
“Behave yourself,” my new husband muttered. I smirked but said nothing.
A Chasseur stopped in front of me. “Identification.”
“Er—”
My husband dipped his head stiffly. “This is my wife, Louise.”
I stared at him, amazed the words had managed to escape through his clenched teeth. As usual, he ignored me.
The Chasseur in front of me blinked. Blinked again. “Your—your wife, Captain Diggory?”
He offered a barely perceptible nod, and I truly feared for his poor teeth. They’d surely chip if he kept gnashing them together. “Yes.”
The Chasseur risked a glance at me. “This is . . . highly unusual. Is the Archbishop aware—”
“He’s expecting us.”
“Of course.” The Chasseur turned to the pageboy who’d just appeared. “Inform the Archbishop that Captain Diggory and his . . . wife have arrived.” He cast another furtive glance in my direction as the boy scurried away. I winked back at him. My husband made an impatient noise and seized my arm, steering me forcefully toward the door.
I tugged my arm away. “There’s no need to cripple me.”
“I told you to behave.”
“Oh, please. I winked. It’s not like I stripped and sang ‘Big Titty Liddy’—”
A commotion rose behind us, and we turned as one. More Chasseurs marched up the street, carrying what looked like a body between them. Though they’d wrapped it in cloth for propriety’s sake, there was no mistaking the hand that dangled below the sheet.
Or the vines that had grown between its fingers. Or the bark that dappled its skin.
I leaned closer—despite my husband yanking me back—and inhaled the familiar sweetness emanating from the body. Interesting.
One of the Chasseurs hastened to conceal the hand. “We found him just outside the city, Captain.”
My husband jerked his head toward the alley beside the church without a word, and the Chasseurs hurried away.
Though my husband led me inside, I craned my neck to watch them go. “What was that about?”
“Never you mind.”
“Where are they taking him?”
“I said never you—”
“Enough.” The Archbishop strode into the foyer, eyeing the mud and water pooling at my feet in distaste. He’d already changed into fresh choral robes, of course, and washed the flecks of mud and sand from his face. I resisted the urge to fidget with my torn dress or finger-comb my matted hair. It didn’t matter what I looked like. The Archbishop could piss off. “The marriage certificate is waiting in my study. From where should we retrieve your possessions?”