Not a Single River Runs Backward

The wedding barge was supposed to carry me through nine water gates along the channel that split Crosshaven in two. My groom, Julian Voss, was meant to pole it himself. That was the condition. That was the whole point. The Voss family charter said any heir who failed to row his bride through all nine gates in one night forfeited his claim to the Foundry House, the old ironworks estate that had been in the family for a hundred and forty years. Julian made it through one gate before he jumped ship. I was sitting under a canopy of white roses, my hands folded in my lap, listening to the water slap against the hull. I heard the oars stop. I heard a splash. Then nothing, just the low hum of the channel and the distant clang of the harbor bell. Someone else climbed aboard. The barge rocked hard, and I grabbed the rail. Through the lace of my veil I saw a man take up the pole, his shoulders broad, his movements angry and exact. He drove the barge through the second gate, then the third, then the fourth. The water gates were old stone arches, half swallowed by moss, and each one groaned as we passed under. My hands ached from gripping the rail. I didn't speak. I didn't know what to say. At the ninth gate he stopped. The barge drifted through on its own momentum and bumped the landing at the Foundry House dock. I heard him breathing hard. I heard him drop the pole. He pulled the veil off my face. It was Julian's brother, Asher. His hands were slick with blood from rope burns and blisters torn open on the pole. He looked at me the way you look at a locked door. "Not my brother," he said. "Disappointed?" I shook my head. He laughed, short and cold. "Liar." That was six years ago. He has slept in the boatworks every night since. When Julian comes home for the holidays, Asher finds me in the kitchen or the hall and says, low and pleasant, "Look. The one you wanted is back." He never raises his voice. He never touches me. He just watches.