On the day of our wedding blessing, I never heard the church bells.
An assistant seamstress I had known for years entered my room carrying a written order from the bishop. She refused to meet my eyes.
I had barely turned away from the mirror when a maid came up behind me and pressed a drug-soaked handkerchief over my mouth and nose.
When I woke, I was bound on the top floor of an old bell tower, my white gown streaked with dust.
Julian stood by the window. In the distance, St. Andrew's Cathedral was already filled with guests.
"You came after all," he said, as though I had chosen to be there.
A sheet of paper and a quill lay on the table.
Julian ordered me to write a letter accusing Adrian of forcing me into the marriage.
"Write it, and I'll pardon the Harringtons."
"No."
He slap
