The next few hours went by with chaos, corsetry, and the gradual psychological dismantling of a Brooklyn art student.
After the maid's announcement, Rita and Conny descended on me with the focused, slightly terrifying energy of a pit crew at a Formula One race, except instead of changing tyres they were lacing me into approximately seventeen layers of the most beautiful and structurally oppressive clothing I had ever encountered in my life.
The wedding dress was — okay. I'll give them this. The wedding dress was extraordinary. Ivory silk that pooled at the floor like something liquid, with intricate silver embroidery along the bodice that caught the candlelight and threw it back in pieces. The sleeves were long and fitted, the neckline modest by modern standards but apparently quite dari
