“Do I look silly?” she’d demanded of her old friend. “I’m such a plain girl. Is this nightgown too fancy for me?”

“You look like a bride,” Sophie had replied. There was a trace of sadness in her eyes. Alise understood. Today, with Alise’s wedding, they left the last remnant of their girlhood behind. They were both wedded women now. Despite her anticipation, Alise felt a brief moment of regret for the life she left behind. Never a girl again, she thought. Never another night in her father’s house as his daughter. And that, she abruptly recognized as relief.

“Are you worried at all?” Sophie asked her as their eyes met in the elaborately framed vanity mirror.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied and tried to control her smile.

“Will it be strange, the three of you sharing a home?”

“You mean Sedric? Of course not! He was ever my friend, and I’m only too glad to see that he and Hest get along so well. I know so few of the other Traders in Hest’s circle. I shall be very glad to have an old friend at my side as I move into my new life.”

Sophie met her gaze in the mirror; she looked surprised. Then she cocked her head at her friend and said, “Well, you were ever the one for making the best of things! And I think that my brother will be happy to have such a staunch ally as you’ve always been to him! And I can make you no more beautiful than you already are. You seem so happy with all this. Are you, truly?”

“Truly, I am,” she assured her friend.

“Then I shall leave you, with my very best wishes. Good night, Alise!”

“Good night, Sophie.”

Alone, she sat before her mirror. She picked up her brush and ran it again through her auburn hair. She scarcely knew the woman in the lacy peignoir. Her mother had expertly applied her powder earlier in the day; her freckles had been subdued, not just on her face but on her bosom and arms. She was, she’d thought, about to step into a life that she hadn’t even tried to imagine since she was a little girl and full of dreams. Downstairs, the musicians played a final song that bid her guests good night. Her bedchamber window was open. She heard the sounds of carriage wheels on the drive as guest after guest left. She tried to be patient, knowing that Hest must remain downstairs until the last one was gone. Eventually, she heard the door close a final time, and she recognized through the open window the voices of her parents bidding Hest’s father good night. They would be the last, she was sure. She freshened her perfume. Two carriages departed. She blew out half the scented candles, dimming the room. Downstairs in the house, all was still. In the candlelit bedchamber filled with elegant vases of fragrant flowers, she anticipated her husband’s arrival. Heart thundering, she waited, ears straining for the sounds of his boots on the stair.

And waited. The night deepened. And chilled. She donned a soft lambswool shawl and settled into a chair by the hearth. The evening insects stopped their chirring. A lonely night bird called and received no response. Slowly her mood sank from expectant to nervous to anxious and then foundered in bewilderment. The hearth fire that had warmed the room burned down. She added another log to it, blew out the guttering candles in the ornate silver stands, and relit the other ones. She sat, legs curled beneath her, in the cushioned armchair beside the hearth, waiting for her groom to come and claim his right to her.

When the tears came, she could not stem them. After they passed, she could not repair the damage to her powdered face. So she washed her face clean of all pretense, confronted her dappled self in the mirror, and asked herself when she had become such a fool. Hest had stated his terms clearly, from the beginning. She was the one who had made up a foolish fairy tale about love and draped it over the cold iron trellis of their bargain. She could not blame him. Only herself.

She should simply disrobe and go to bed.

Instead, she sat down again by the fire and watched the flames devour the log and then subside.

Long past the deep of night, in the shallows of early morning, when the last of her candles were burning low, her drunken husband came in. His hair was rumpled, his step unsteady, and his collar already loosened. He seemed startled to find her awaiting him by the dying fire. His gaze walked up and down her, and suddenly she felt embarrassed for him to see her in a nightgown that was virginally white and elaborately embroidered. His mouth twitched, and for a second she saw a flash of his teeth. Then he looked aside from her and said in a slurred voice, “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

He didn’t come to her. He walked toward the bed, loosening his clothing as he crossed the room. His jacket and then his shirt fell to the thick rug before he stopped by the four remaining candles. He bent at the waist and with a single harsh whoosh of breath, he extinguished them, plunging the room into darkness. She could smell the liquor on his breath.