by Anya Allyn
I stepped rigidly back to my stool and seated myself, struck mute. Shrugging, Viola turned her attentions to Aisha.
Audette sat there complaining loudly that she looked too pasty. She made her cheeks several shades pinker and her eyelids a vivid pinkish-purple.
“Looking pasty is better than looking like an iced pastry,” whispered Molly to me.
The women bustled together and stepped back to study their handiwork. “You all look like proper brides now,” one of them told us.
In the gloom of the sitting room, we waited. Minutes ticked on. Outside, the day darkened into twilight.
I jumped when the knock came at the door.
“I will accompany you to the chapel.” Francoeur bowed his head slightly, his hooded eyes surveying us.
Viola fluffed her hair in the mirror. “Lead the way, my man,” she told him.
Francoeur subtly sighed and turned and stepped into the corridor. Viola ran behind him, humming the wedding march. The brides filed out behind them. I clutched my sweaty palms together.
As I reached the door, I turned back to Lacey. She stared at me with wide eyes, her stockinged knees drawn up to her white face.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I’ve been told to stay here.”
I gave her a questioning frown, but she shrugged a shoulder.
Returning to the corridor, I watched the others as they descended the spiral staircase. Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I followed after them—walking blind toward my fate.
In the courtyard, rain hung in the humid air, mingling with the scents of earth and wet roses. Every lamp was lit in and around the chapel, lighting the weathered, ancient stonework. But the lamps were not enough to take away the Stygian darkness inside the chapel. I was about to walk into a mausoleum, a deadened place.
The chamber ladies fussed around us, pulling our veils over our faces.
The guests turned to gaze at us with their callous eyes. All of them knew that Molly and I were marrying today under a pact, and none of them cared. We were about to become daughters of the castle, and that was all that mattered to them. The four grooms stood facing the altar, turning their heads in unison as we entered.
I lowered my eyes as the fathers of the grooms stepped forward to take our arms. I had no desire to walk down the aisle with Mr. Batiste, but I had no choice. He took Aisha and me on each arm. Mr. Baldcott came to claim Molly. The ghost of Henry's father came to walk with Audette—Audette hustling her way to the front of the line so that she could walk the aisle first. She needn’t have bothered, as Francoeur had already informed us that the marriages would be held from the oldest age of the groom to the youngest. And Henry was oldest by a long mile. I guessed that since it had taken Audette so long to get Henry down the aisle that she didn’t want to take any chances. It had taken her a hundred years, I thought wryly.
The elderly woman I’d seen earlier today sat at the pipe organ dressed in a black feathered hat. She struck a heavy, reverberating note—playing a tune more fitting for a funeral. The brides began their march down the aisle.
I could barely feel my limbs.
I’m not really here. I’m not really here.
Walking beside a man I hated, I made my way toward the altar. Mr. Batiste finally released his hold on my arm and stepped away. Zach reached for my hand, holding it firmly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy,” he whispered. My arm brushed the stiff, thick material of his suit. Zach didn’t seem like the Zach I knew. In the suit, in this setting, he seemed a stranger.
The priest stepped out in front of the altar, deep creases crisscrossing his face. “We come together this evening to join these children of God together in holy matrimony. We will celebrate the joining together of flesh and soul and the bonds that seal each couple together here on earth, til death do they part.”
Audette and Henry were summoned first. If the priest knew they were ghosts, he gave nothing away. He performed the vows in a dry, French accent. At the end, Audette kissed Henry so passionately that the priest had to put his hand on her shoulder. She stared around with blue eyes full of excitement, her overly-pink cheeks glowing.
Aisha and Emerson were married next. Aisha smiled nervously as she and Emerson took their place beside Henry and Audette on the left side of the altar. Emerson merely nodded at the guests, his eyes guarded.
Molly shot me a tight-lipped smile through her veil as she and Parker were called to the altar. I watched as the priest married them. Molly kept her composure. The girl who had blushed and stumbled for words whenever Parker gave her a compliment was no more.
“And now,” said the priest, “we come to the union of Zachary Batiste and Cassandra Claiborne. Please step forward and begin the first step of your journey together.”
Trembling, I allowed Zach to lead me to the altar. The priest spoke the ceremony in French, as he had the others. Although I understood some of it, I needed prompting to know when to say my first, I do.
The brides of the castle stood beside their new husbands on the left-hand side. In minutes, I would take my place there with Zach. Audette clung to Henry’s arm, her head on his shoulder. Henry stood rigidly, his eyes scanning the doors of the chapel. I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of the guests as they sat patiently in the pews. They also were looking back toward the chapel doors, their gloved hands reaching for each other’s.
As though they were all waiting for something.
Noises and shouts rang out through the night air outside. The priest stopped his stream of words abruptly, his hand frozen in mid-air.
A girl in a lace bridal gown was brought into the church.
The fifth bride.
29. THE FIFTH BRIDE
The brides and grooms were swiftly guided away from the altar. Zach eyed his father in confusion. Mr. Batiste’s face was a cold mask. Lacey stood behind the girl, bending to smooth out the long train of her gown. I understood now why Lacey had been asked to remain in the dressing chamber—to help dress and prepare the girl for her wedding.
The girl began to struggle and cry out as four of the men of the castle forced her along the aisle. She was small and looked like a child beside the men bringing her to the altar. Her eyes gazed from side to side in terror beneath her veil.
“What’s happening?” I breathed.
Zach stared back at me with fear in his eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t told of this.”
One of the men gestured at the priest. “It is of the essence this girl be married in this instant.”
“But we have not concluded the marriage of this young couple.” The priest glanced at Zach and me.
“We have not time. You will marry her first.”
The priest took a step back, shaking his head. “She does not seem in agreement. In the sacred union of marriage, it is imperative both parties wish for the union to happen.”
Henry stepped forward. “Father, this is out of your hands. You will marry her to her groom.”
The chapel plunged into an unnatural silence. The swish of the rain outside was the only sound. The entire chapel waited.
A man strode into the chapel. He shook the rain from the long coat that he wore. He tossed the coat carelessly aside—guests from the pews rushing to take it. He took strange, deliberate steps down the aisle. He was perhaps thirty years old, but it was impossible to tell for sure. His eyes were cold, cold like the obsidian sculpture of the mirrored tree.
He took his place beside the girl, ignoring her fear.
Henry bowed. “Welcome, great one, Monseigneur of Le château sur la Falaise Solitaire.”
The man gave a brief nod.
The girl shrank from the man. “Je vous en prie! Ramenez-moi à la maison!”
I understood enough of her French to understand that she was begging to be taken back home. She tore the veil from her head and face, staring about at the gathering. She looked no more than thirteen or fourteen—an underfed child with huge da
rk eyes and a pointed chin. Her lower lip trembled as she raised her eyes to the man who stood beside her. The man’s gaze feasted on her, with a look that spoke of desire and hunger.
Molly and I stepped forward at the same time.
“She does not want to be married.” My voice echoed thinly in the chapel.
The man slowly turned to stare at me, a grin that was more of a sneer playing on his lips. His skin had a grayish sheen, his lips dark and his eyes lusterless. A chill sped through me.
The men who had brought the girl to the altar rushed to push Molly and I back, holding us firmly. Their wet jackets and shirts smelled of sweat.
“Father Merde,” said Henry, “you will remember who donates a sizeable sum to your church, and how you attained your position.”
“I should not have come to La Falaise tonight.” The priest made the sign of the cross.
“You have always come to La Falaise,” said Henry. “Because you know who has the power must have the grace of God.”
“I am nothing but a fool,” the priest muttered. “swayed by worldly things.”
“You know the power of the château extends far beyond this world. Your church has prestige and might because of us. All we ask is that you do not question the ways of the chateau. Marry this girl to this man and return to your church.”
The priest’s face and hands shook as he stepped up to the podium. He gazed straight ahead, his white face frozen.
“S'il vous plaît! S'il vous plaît, non!” the girl screamed.
“She said to stop!” The words rushed from deep within me.
Molly tried to throw off the arms that bound her. “Let her go! You people are monsters....”
The men clapped hands over our mouths. I stared up at Zach, pleading silently with him to do something. He shook his head slightly, the muscles in his face tense. I knew then, with all certainty, Zach would do nothing to stop this.
The priest continued on as though he didn’t have a terrified child standing before him screaming for him to stop, keeping his eyes averted and his voice monotone.
The groom bent his head down to his terrified bride. “Shhh, Etienette....” His voice blew through the old chapel like dried leaves.
Ice water poured down my spine. I knew that voice—knew the man behind that voice. I knew the girl of that name. But these people couldn’t be them. It was not possible.
The priest arced his neck up, his eyes opening wide, placing a hand in the air as though to guard himself against the man who stood in the space before him.
“Continue,” Henry hissed.
His shoulders moving in time with his heavy breaths, the priest forced his eyes back down to the open book on the pedestal. He began reading again, uttering the words through his teeth. His aged hands clutched the podium when he asked the girl if she would take the man beside her as her husband. The girl refused to answer. The priest continued, as though her silence was no longer of importance.
The girl eyed the man next to her, her shaking hand reaching to her mouth. The sheen of the man’s skin had turned powdery, pale. Dark holes appeared in his face, the flesh falling away like dust. He screamed in rage, his hands curling into tight fists.
The girl took her hand from her face and slowly gazed down at it. Her skin was ashen.
“Dieu aidez-moi!” She raised her eyes and arms to the cross above her as she cried out to God to help her. The man fell to his knees as he watched her skin and flesh disintegrating. The girl that had been Etienette collapsed within her wedding dress. Dust blew from the dress, along the aisle and out into the night. Powdery dust fell from the man’s body, leaving a dark shell. He rose from his knees—a charred, misshapen old man.
“Balthazar....” I breathed.
I stared about me. The entire congregation watched open-mouthed—their eyes fearful.
Zach’s father strode forward, and then thrust himself down on his knees. “Forgive us, Monseigneur Batiste. We believed that this time, we would succeed.” He bowed his head.
A rumble left Balthazar’s throat. “Thou did not give me my desire.” The voice was cut with ice, with the blades of knives.
“Across worlds, across centuries... it proved too much, Monseigneur. We need more time.” Zach's father's words were desperate.
“I have waited. Thou did not prove thyself.”
Holding up the palms of his hands, Zach’s father bowed his head. “Please, Monseigneur, we have put everything into finding the second tome of the Speculum Nemus. We need its knowledge. We cannot bring a viable body across centuries without the wisdom of its text. And an unwilling bride is even more difficult to prevent from decaying. But we will find the book and then we will bring her. The next one will not decay. And we will restore you to your glory.”
The girl’s screams echoed in my mind. They had brought her from another world. From the fourteenth century of another world. And they had let her die, crumble to dust. Not a word was spoken of her, of the child they had just murdered.
The charred remains of Balthazar twisted his neck around. His dead eyes drew across the brides that stood near the altar. His long, thin finger motioned toward me. “This one, he breathed. “She wears no wedding ring.”
“She is the last to be married,” said Mr. Batiste. “She is marrying my youngest son.”
His gaze raked over me with interest. “Yes, I remember her. She ventured into my dungeons alone, the night of the s’emparer.” He crossed toward me, his finger touching the flesh under my chin. His mouth stretched across his face in a grimace. “She is like my Etienette, no?” His claw-like hand moved to my hair. “Has she come through centuries?”
“No, Monseigneur. Just seventeen years have passed since her birth,” Mr. Batiste told him.
Balthazar turned back to the priest. “Marry us,” he instructed the priest. “She wilt be my Etienette.”
My knees buckled.
Molly screamed in anguish.
“Monseigneur?” cried Henry. “She is meant for Zachary Batiste. Of your blood.” He gazed at me in horror.
“Silence. I will have what I will have.” Balthazar’s hand gripped mind, pulling me away.
“No!” Zach rushed forward, grasping Balthazar’s blackened shoulders with both hands.
Turning sharply, Balthazar held out a hand, thrusting Zach upward. He pushed him tumbling and crashing along the vaulted ceiling.
“Please, Monseigneur, this is my son,” cried Zach’s father. “My son!”
Balthazar let the unconscious Zach fall to the floor. “Then he should know his place.”
Men held Molly fast as she struggled against them. I tried to move, tried to run, but my body felt chained to the floor. Staring about, I silently pleaded for someone, anyone, to tell me this wasn’t happening.
The priest stepped up to the podium. “May God have mercy on my soul.”
Francoeur shuffled down the aisle. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. Bowing, he presented it to Balthazar. “Etienette’s ring, Monseigneur, from the château heirlooms.”
Balthazar opened the box. An ugly ring with a massive red gem sat inside the box.
The men who had held Etienette in place marched forward to stand beside me. The priest began reading, his voice tuning in and out amidst the blood pumping through my head. I heard none of it. I was drowning in a pool of thick, black liquid. My jaw shook uncontrollably.
Balthazar turned to me, his bony hands pressed into mine. “We art one. I shall await thee in my chambers.”
He turned to Zach’s father and Henry. “I wilt have this girl and consummate the marriage at the moment thou doth bring me another body. She wilt take my seed and she wilt bear my progeny.” He breathed heavily through his deformed nostrils. “But now I must rest. Thou hast wearied me. The girl wilt stay in my chambers through l'été. Thou wilt restore me on the last day of l’été, and thou will not fail. Else my retribution will be fierce in ways thou cannot imagine.”
L'été m
eant the summer.
Three months.
Balthazar’s chambers.
Until consummation.
Blood drained from every vein inside me, as though it would spill out across the altar and spread through the chapel.
My mind darkened, all light pulling away.
~*~
END, Book 3.
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The final title of the dollhouse books (Book 4.) will be coming very soon. More information and updates on my website, Facebook page and newsletter:
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Thanks hugely for reading and staying engaged with the Dollhouse series.
It means a lot to me that readers who have come this far with the books 'get' the world that I'm portraying.
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SPECIAL THANKS
A very special thanks to a group of beta-readers who read Marionette and gave me detailed comments and feedback when it was still at draft stage. Thank you so much Liz James, Katie Boettcher, Amber Parry and Brenda Telford.
An extra special thank you to Brenda Telford who was also one of the first readers of the Dollhouse books and who has always had encouraging words, especially back in my nervous first days when I wondered if I had any right to release the wild imaginings of my mind upon the world.
And thank you to Tim and my family for your continued support of me and my crazy working hours, always.
