She looked liked a duquesse, she just wasn't sure how long it might take before she actually felt like one. Or if, indeed, she ever would. Months and months of lessons from her future in-laws, and Jean-Paul helping wherever possible, and she'd begun to feel like she might have a grasp of the basics. But, like magic, the minutiae of court politics and court protocol was a process that took years of study to master. Which was why the children of the aristo families learned these things from birth, along with the more mundane matters of spelling and history and arithmetic and such.
Memorizing names and lineages made her head ache worse than even the dullest lessons she’d ever endured at the Academe.
But she wanted Jean-Paul, and so she had to take what came with him. That was the bargain she had made.
Even if it seemed impossible at times.
She sighed and took a step closer to the mirror, careful not to move too fast. Her satin shoes had heels that were higher than was wise when she had to steer a wedding dress that was structured and hooped and adorned to within an inch of its life and weighed nearly as much as she did. But the shoes had been deemed suitable and necessary to lessen the height difference between her and Jean-Paul at the altar. Given Jean-Paul was one of the tallest men at court, she didn’t think an extra inch of heel was going to help much. She wasn’t short, but her betrothed made nearly everybody look smaller than they were.
Having survived the careful step, she fussed with her necklace. It would be a lie to claim that she hated the part of the bargain that came with a near unlimited budget for clothing and whatever else her heart might desire. Or that access to a collection of truly breathtaking jewelry acquired over centuries was unpleasant.
The design negotiations over her wedding gown had been as bad as the betrothal dress. She’d assumed it might be simpler, given the betrothal dress had dealt with issues of family symbols and colors. But the marriage of a duq-to-be was a matter of state, and the wedding dress had to shine. She’d never been to a coronation or an Imperial wedding, but she’d seen the paintings of the dresses Empress Liane had worn for both those occasions, and they weren’t so far removed from the one she wore now.
A stark reminder that it didn't really matter what she and Jean-Paul thought about their wedding, they had little control over the formal parts of today.
She was trying not to think about it. Better to focus only on Jean-Paul, who would be waiting for her when she reached the temple’s altar.
Of course, to reach him and the safety of his hand over hers, she had to walk past about a thousand guests—most of the court—and then even more family connections of the du Laqs. Her own guest list accounted for maybe fifty. Which seemed far too few friendly faces to get her through the day. Chloe was her chief attendant, so that was one ally close, but it was still two against hundreds.
All those aristo eyes watching her. She'd gotten a little more used to it over the months of practice, but it was still a daunting prospect, knowing some of those watching didn't wish her joy of her day. Rather, they were hoping she might make an idiot of herself, or at least commit some small blunder that would give them even the smallest political leverage over Jean-Paul or his father.
That was why her dress had to be perfect, and her hair, and the jewels that turned her into a fair semblance of a glass ornament. The dress was embroidered with metal threads in the same colors as her betrothal gown, mingled with hints of the du Laq blue and gold. But the heavy satin was also scattered with pearls and small brilliants that echoed the priceless fire from the diamonds she wore. The tiara woven into her hair and the earrings and necklace were exquisite but hardly subtle. If a stray sunbeam hit her during the ceremony, she might well blind unwary onlookers. The thought made her giggle. It was one way to defeat the scrutiny of the court.
She flexed her hands, which were, apart from her betrothal ring, unadorned. She'd put her foot down on the matter of additional rings, insisting that she would wear Jean-Paul's and no other.
But even his ring felt weighty and unfamiliar now that she was standing alone in the dressing room at the temple near the palace. The largest one in all Illvya. Where Domina Francis herself, the head of the entire temple in the Empire, would marry them.
Imogene had never expected her wedding to be a public spectacle. Truthfully, she hadn't thought much of a wedding at all, her focus on her magic and her career she’d worked so hard for. All that time and effort. Jean-Paul had promised that she would still be one of the Imperial mages after they wed. Indeed, she had been on several shorter missions in the last few months. His parents had tried to protest at first, but Jean-Paul had overridden their concerns.
He was sincere in his support, she knew, but she wasn't sure that his will alone would be enough to shift the weight of royal tradition and protocol that would also expect her to become a fixture at court. Thank the goddess that Jean-Paul wasn't actually the duq yet. There'd be a far smaller chance of her escaping any of it if he’d already held the title. Which was why she needed to make sure she started now and established herself in the mages while his father was still alive. Privately she wished her father-in-law to be a very, very long and happy life.
If she worked from the beginning, then by the time—far in the future—when Jean-Paul took up the title, her career would be just part of who she was. Unusual perhaps, for a duquesse, but she could live with being different. She was different to the other duquesses. For a start, she had a sanctii.
"Ikarus," she whispered. "Are you here?"
"Yes," the sanctii said, appearing beside her. His black eyes studied her for a long moment. "Worried? Why?"
He was sensing her nerves. Their bond was growing more complex every day.
"It's a big day," she said. "Lots of fuss."
"Humans," he rumbled, tone somewhat dismissive. As far as she could tell, sanctii seemed to find humans largely entertaining, their day-to-day concerns largely unimportant. Perhaps they bonded with human mages purely so they could observe more closely? Or maybe they liked to have the chance to be part of the entertainment.
"Is it simpler for sanctii? Having a mate?" she asked, adjusting the necklace again.
He shrugged. "Different."
She wouldn't get any more than that out of him. Sanctii females were rare in the human world. Only a few had been bonded over the long centuries of Illvyan history. Which left the mages with little insight into how sanctii society functioned. And the sanctii themselves were tight-lipped on the matter. Clearly more sanctii were created somehow. And they had two sexes. But no one had learned more than that. Today wasn't the day to push for information.
"How do I look?" she asked him. Foolish, really. A sanctii didn't view human clothes and fashions in the same way.
But to her surprise, Ikarus looked her up and down. "Good," he said. "Mate be happy." One corner of his mouth turned up.
He seemed to like Jean-Paul, which made life easier. And Jean-Paul had grown used to him too.
“I hope so,” she muttered, staring into the mirror one last time. “Will you stay for the wedding?”
“Stay,” Ikarus agreed. But then he vanished again as a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she said, thinking it would be her parents or Chloe come to tell her it was time to start. But the person who appeared behind her in the mirror was Jean-Paul. She turned faster than was sensible in the gown and overbalanced. She wobbled, then regained her footing. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Jean-Paul said.
“You’re supposed to be downstairs, on display, so everyone can make bad jokes as they arrive,” Imogene said. But her nerves were melting away as she took him in. He wore a formal uniform in the du Lac colors rather than the black of the Imperial army. Deep blue, but instead of yellow, the braiding and buttons and embroidery that decorated the shoulders and cuffs and edges of the jacket were actual gold that shone almost as bright as her diamonds. How many hours had his manservant had spent polishing them yesterday?
“Everyone can wait,” Jean-Paul rumbled as he stared down at her, a smile playing over his mouth. “We will have little enough time together today until this production comes to a close. I wanted a chance to be alone with you.”
There was a look in his eyes as he took in her dress that suggested he approved. She held up a warning hand. “You cannot muss me. There’s not enough time to fix my hair and you’ll be a widower before midnight if your mother discovers that I wrinkled this dress before I get down the aisle.”
“My arms are long,” he pointed out. “I can reach you without mussing you.”
She looked down at the skirt doubtfully. It belled out around her for several feet in every direction. “You can muss me later,” she said. “When it’s official.”
He laughed. “I seem to remember I’ve mussed you unofficially often enough.”
“Then holding off this one time won’t hurt you,” she retorted. But her resolve weakened. He was very handsome in his uniform, and the joy in his eyes as he looked at her made her melt a little, as it always did.
“One kiss,” he said, holding up a finger. “Just one. A reminder why you’re going through with this nonsense instead of running from the building as any sensible woman would do.”
“Oh, there are any number of women downstairs who’d happily take my place without fleeing,” she said.
“None of them light my days, though, my love,” he said. “So I need to be sure I light yours too.”
He did. Every overly tall, overly sure of himself, overly aristo inch of him. He was hers. She was his. And maybe he was right. The vows they would make in the temple, under all those eyes, were to make everyone else happy. What mattered was the vows they made for each other.
She reached out her hands, and he took them, inching closer so the gleaming toes of his boots just touched the edge of her hem. The feel of his fingers wrapped around hers, made her dizzy for an instant before she focused back on his storm colored eyes.
“Let’s say them now,” she said.
He looked a little confused. “Say what?”
“The vows. What we’re going to say to each other downstairs. Marry me, Jean-Paul. Just you and me.”
“Lieutenant, I like the way you think.” His grip tightened, and he cleared his throat. “But isn’t there usually a domina involved?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Not doing anything we can’t do ourselves. And anyway, if we miss something, they’ll take care of it downstairs. But I want this to be just for us. Everything else is theater and spectacle. This is the part that means something.”
“All right.” He cleared his throat again, looking charmingly nervous for just a moment. “I believe it’s the wife who starts.”
She smiled. “Jean-Paul Gerrald Henri Louis du Laq.”
“Impressive,” he murmured.
“Sssh. You have too many names, but I know them all.” She started again. “Jean-Paul Gerrald Henri Louis. Today I make this vow. To be yours body and blood. To make my heart’s home with you. To offer my strength as solace, my fidelity as fire, my—” She hesitated as a sudden rush of happiness caught the words in her throat and she had to blink back tears. “My breath as my bond. May our love grow strong as the Tree of the World, its roots as deep. And may we not be parted until the goddess grants that to the earth we return.”
Jean-Paul’s eyes were full of emotion, the storms threaded with silver light, like the sun breaking through. His tone was steady and certain, rumbling with a sound that lit her heart as he began. “Imogene Sera Carvelle. Today I make this vow. To be yours body and blood. To offer my strength as shield, my fidelity as fire.”
The words seemed to ring in the air, filling her ears and her heart.
“My breath as my bond. May our love grow strong as the Tree of the World, its roots as deep. And may we not be parted until the goddess grants that to the earth we return.”
They stared at each other, lost in the moment.
“So, do you feel married now?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Do you?”
One side of his mouth lifted. “I do, wife.”
“So do I.” Strange, how a few short sentences could change her world all over again.
Then she started to laugh, too happy to do anything else.
Jean-Paul laughed too. Then shook his head. “So, can I kiss you now, wife?”
“Just once,” she said. “Then we have to go downstairs and put on a show.”
Jean-Paul leaned closer, one hand cupping her cheek. His lips on hers were soft but fierce, and she felt heat flare as it always did. What he did to her, this man. What he was. It was worth all the nonsense. She was almost about to throw caution to the winds and tug him closer when he pulled back, expression regretful.
“My mother will absolutely murder us both if I crush your dress.” He sighed. “Do we really have to bother with the official part? As pretty as that dress is, I’d much rather see you out of it.”
She laughed. “I’m afraid so, my lord. So you should go take your place. The sooner we start, the sooner it will be over.”
He nodded, grinning foolishly. “True enough. So, wife. I will see you soon. To marry you. Again.”
THE END (AGAIN)
Chloe’s story continues in The Exile’s Curse, book 1 of the Daughter of Ravens series. It’s set after the Four Arts series.