After the lengthy dinner, Meya was led back to her guest quarters to rehearse her vows with Gretella, Arinel and Haselle, then put to bed early.

She had barely drifted off to a troubled dream when she was woken up by harried maids, who led her stumbling and yawning through the darkness into a wooden bathtub filled with milk and perfumed with rose petals, then scrubbed a layer of skin off her.

Meya was too sleepy for modesty. By the time she was awake enough, she was already sitting in front of a peculiar, rectangular slab of glass which was about a head taller than her.

Meya saw a wide-eyed, freckled-face lass sitting on the same chair she was sitting on, with a storm of maids bustling around like overgrown bees, doing up her hair and decorating her face with color and powder.

“It’s called a mirror.” Arinel hissed as she tugged a comb through Meya’s damp, tangled hair, and Meya snapped her gaping mouth shut, remembering there are Hadrian maids here as well. Jason once told her that mirrors are glass painted with silver on one side. For obvious reasons, her family didn’t own one.

After the last strand of hair had been coiled and the last freckle had been covered, the maids in red bowed and retreated from the vast room. Only Gretella, Arinel and Haselle was 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. She had only meant to twirl once, but the smooth caress of silk on her legs as her dress danced along 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. Consulting the water clock on the far wall, the elderly woman huffed, haughty as ever,

“Very well. We still have some 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 whirled 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. Noticing the delicate white veil trailing from it was a little lopsided, she adjusted her crown of orange blossoms.

As she checked her reflection once more, Meya’s lips twitched into a wan smile. 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 and flowing silk dresses and warm milk baths Meya was enjoying, not to mention marrying a lord. And not just any lord either—the Hadrian heir, no less!

Meya’s savage glee was dampened, however, as she wondered if Dad would approve of what she did. He’d never agreed with anything she came up with. He’d frown at how she had manipulated Arinel and usurped her identity, but what would he rather she could have done? Nothing? She might not even be alive, for all she knew.

Though Meya wanted to believe she was just trying to coax Arinel into cooperating, she must admit that deep down inside, 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. A chance to live the life thousands could only dream of.

And if she somehow survived, more opportunities would present themselves for her to make a name for herself. A day would come when she would strike 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.

Even so, Meya couldn’t help frowning in uneasiness. Meya had always been prone to jealousy, and she had little love for the noble and the rich. Yet, now that she had experienced once 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 peasant lives—the servants and the guards—would be lost. Wouldn’t it be better to just 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, and sit by and let them die? And if the Hadrians chose to fight it out with the bandits, the bandits might kill themselves without giving Meya the antidote as revenge.

Even if the Hadrians succeeded in protecting both them and the dowry, there was no telling what they would do to them for conniving with bandits without Arinel’s consent, either. The bandits were bound to the pact by poison, but there was no obligation for the Hadrians.

This is the only way. Stick to the plan. You must not be distracted.

After one last look at the mirror, Meya threw down her veil and swept towards the door.

As to be expected of the heir’s marriage, the whole manor turned up to celebrate. From 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 road.

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, where the high priest was 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 reciprocated. 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 were not on the Scripture; they swept across the clearing to study the couple and the people who have 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. Yet, a lifetime may not be sufficient for even the most brilliant, learned mind to understand love’s one and only true form. And 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.”

As Lord Coris listened calmly, Meya shifted and fidgeted with her bouquet. She bet all but the naivest of fools here would feel uneasy at the sound of those words, as well. There was nothing 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, to boot.

The aged priest, however, went on with unrelenting passion.

“As wrinkled and learned as I may seem, I remain powerless and humbled before love. As I have insisted over the years, it is 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 a 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 both at the end of your trials.”

A heavy, sacred silence blanketed the crowd at those sincere words. Meya averted her eyes in shame as the priest scrutinized her and Coris. Even as the warm spring sun shone overhead, Meya felt a cold sensation trickle down her spine.

She never did like priests. Even when you weren’t a devout worshipper, you’d feel some chill anyway with all their threats of eternal damnation that would come from evoking the wrath of goodly Freda in some trivial manner.

Finished with his assessment of the couple, the priest betrayed a soft sigh 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 could already see where the two of them were headed, and Meya couldn’t help feeling sorry for the old soul.

The priest cleared his throat, signaling the bride and groom to turn and face one another, then addressed the groom first.

“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 even once, his silvery eyes boring straight into Meya’s. Meya’s hands tremble 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, gulping moisture down her parched throat. She could feel the eyes of hundreds upon her. Before her, Coris frowned, and panic coursed through her. She looked away and tried to speak, but her lips were leaden.

Seconds tick by as the crowd murmured and fidgeted. Meya’s spine felt colder and colder. Then, she jolted as a cold hand clasped around hers and squeezed it. She looked up and found beautiful silvery eyes, but the sincere kindness in it only made her tremble harder, and she looked away once more.

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 allowed her spine to curve a little. She still didn’t dare meet Coris’s gaze. Meya had been a liar and lawbreaker all her life, but it was never easy deceiving people who have done you no wrong. Yet, should she waver now, it might be the last thing she ever did.

The onlookers seemed to accept her insincere vow, as the murmurs died down to be replaced with relieved sighs, and 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 turned to shine Coris a benign smile and the young lord reciprocated. 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 after all? What if her breath stank?

As Meya stood rigid in dread, Coris drew back her veil. Uncertainty flitted by in his eyes as he leaned in. Meya closed her eyes, waiting for the impact, praying nothing would go wrong.

Soft, dry, joltingly cold lips brushed hers in a brief feather-light kiss before drawing away. A torrential downpour of cheers and applause rained down upon them from the circle of onlookers.

Meya opened her eyes to find Lord Coris straightening up, his gentle smile present as always as flower petals once again showered them both. The cold of the kiss danced upon Meya’s lips, and her cheeks burned. A pale tinge of pink was also blossoming on Coris’s cheeks. He ran his fingers over his mouth, then jerked them away, his smile sagging.

“Cold?” Meya blurted out in a whisper.

She felt like biting her irrepressible tongue when she noticed Coris growing even a shade paler. For the first time, those confident, calm silvery eyes flitted left and right, restless. It was in that moment that an inexplicable feeling rushed into Meya’s heart, and she made her decision with the barest of hesitation. She leaned forth and captured those cold, lifeless lips with hers.

She wasn’t imagining it. Coris’s lips were just as cold as his hands. His lips seared, but she held on, warming them with the heat from her own lips. As the chill receded, she tasted a strange sweetness which sent tingles through her body. Everything around her—the crowd, the cheers, the birds—all seemed to have fallen silent.

It was a moment as brief as a breath, yet as long as a lifetime. Her head felt blank and light. All she registered was the feeling of Coris’s lips moving upon hers, the cold of his hands on her waists, the faint perfume of roses from his hair—and the sour reek of acid and blood in his breath.

When they drew away to catch their breaths, Meya felt a drop of water clinging to her cheek, yet she was sure it hadn’t originated from her eyes.

Coris remained smiling, however. He caressed her lips with his thumb, touched it on his in comparison, then whispered with a laugh.

“It’s warm now.”