[MIDNIGHT BLUE]
[MIDNIGHT BLUE]
You keep trying your hand at your soon-to-be married name, adding flourishes every time you write it. In two days, it will become your new signature. Forever.
A dream! A noble widower with no children from a land just across the mountains. He could have proposed to anyone in his country. Yet you're the one who caught his eye, and he proposed to you.
Well, not exactly. You've never spoken. It was all agreed with your father. But you felt the weight of his gaze and the fire it promised that day at church. No one has ever looked at you like that.
And he's so wealthy! All your father's debts are to be settled on the day of the marriage; the family estate finally saved from vultures.
You've never felt so important.
You're too young. That's what your brother keeps saying.
He's just jealous. He doesn't want you to move away, to see the world before he does. You will miss him, though; you know you will.
Only this is different. The memory of that first and only glance still makes your skin burn at night.
In two days it won't be a memory anymore. It won't be just his gaze on your skin.
Excitement prevents you from sleeping. You leap out of bed, light a candle, sit in front of your tiny writing bureau, and resume the exercise that has consumed part of most nights since you've known he will be your husband.
Nib scratches paper as you think of his eyes, of his hands, on your skin, as you trace the name, again and again:
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