the silver knife from the server, placed it on the table, and said, Enough.
The room quieted.
Malcolm laughed gently. My nephew tires easily.
Julian rolled backward. His chair moved smoothly, controlled by hands that looked too strong for a man everyone called helpless.
I watched him go.
Celeste leaned near my ear. Do not embarrass us tonight.
Us.
That word made me turn.
Who exactly is us?
Her smile held. The people keeping your father out of prison.
Prison?
Before I could demand what she meant, Malcolm appeared at her side.
The bride must be exhausted, he said. Let us get her upstairs.
The bridal suite was in the west wing, far from the guests and music. A young maid named Elsie led me through corridors lined with oil portraits and closed doors. Rain had started against the windows, soft at first, then harder.
At the suite, Elsie hesitated.
Are you all right, ma’am?
The question was so unexpected that I almost cried.
I am fine.
She looked over her shoulder toward the staircase, then pressed something small into my palm. A folded tissue? No, a scrap of paper.
Before I could open it, she whispered, Do not trust the medicine tray.
Then she hurried away.
I stood alone outside my wedding room, holding the warning in my fist.
Inside, Julian waited by the window. His wheelchair faced the black ocean. The lamp beside him cast half his face in gold and left the rest in shadow.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then I remembered the scrap of paper and tucked it into my sleeve.
Do you need help moving to the bed? I asked.
His jaw tightened.
No.
I was too tired to be gentle.
I am not trying to insult you.
Everyone is trying to do something in this house.
That landed between us like a challenge.
What are you trying to do? I asked.
He turned from the window. Survive the night.
I thought it was bitterness. Drama. The kind of thing a rich recluse might say after being forced to marry a stranger.
Then he pushed his chair toward the bed, reached for the carved bedpost, and lifted himself with his arms.
For one second, he looked balanced.
Then my heel caught the edge of the rug.
I stumbled forward.
Julian turned too fast. The chair struck the nightstand. The lamp fell. Glass cracked against the floor.
I fell into him.
And he caught me.
His arm closed around my waist. His knee drove into the carpet. His thigh tightened under my hand. He held both our weight with a precision that had nothing to do with paralysis.
I looked down.
He looked at my face.
The room went silent except for rain and our breathing.
You can move your legs, I said.
His hand loosened on my waist.
Livia.
Do not say my name like that. Do not make me part of this.
You already are.
That frightened me more than the movement.
I pushed myself away, gathering my dress in shaking hands. Julian shifted back onto the floor, dragging one leg as if remembering a performance. But I had already felt the truth.
How long? I demanded.
He looked toward the door.
Not here.
No. Right here. Right now. How long
