It was like an out-of-body experience. Constance Carwick was dimly aware of the fuss being made over her – and what a fuss it was! – but felt oddly removed from it; more of an observer than a subject. Was this really happening to her? Not that she was able to form a question like that into an actual, concrete thought with the cacophony of chatter in the room. When had Olive last been surrounded by so many women? So many noblewomen at that. A perpetual tomboy who, as a child, had chaffed easily under the attention of only her mother and Grace whenever she needed to be made presentable, Olive thought the answer was perhaps never.
Grace was here now, of course, doing something both time-consuming and uncomfortable with her hair. Two additional maids were there at Grace's disposal to hold this or tie that or pin here. Then there were Adette and Marietta, Erwin's two younger sisters, both teenagers still and filled with such unwavering and inexhaustible enthusiasm for the day that it nearly bowled Olive over. The pair flitted between Olive, the maids, and the other guests, cheerfully speaking with everyone and anyone who would listen. Lady Rosengard, an old friend of Lord Burrows, who the Master of Coin had recruited to spearhead the wedding planning was in the room with her two daughters, only a bit older than Erwin's sisters and, like their mother, brimming with opinions. Lord Burrows' three daughters, for that matter, were here as well. Olive had to search between all the shifting women in the mirror to find the figures of the only two members of her family – the only two left – sitting quietly apart from the rest. Olive didn't know Ainsley and Bryony as well as she'd known their brothers; they had come much less often to the Keep. There was less reason for them to. But she thought they felt the same ghosts here that she did. Ainsley, the elder of the two and only a year older than Olive, had been hastily married to a middle son of the family who inherited Birchollow, looked solemn but not out of place in the room. Bryony, on the other hand, both stood out and simultaneously nearly disappeared in her modest gray nun's habit. Olive tried to catch her eye in the mirror, but her cousin hastily looked away, casting her eyes down.
Almost as surreal as the scene around her was the cause of it. This was the day Constance Carwick would disappear, and she would become Constance Therrien. Duchess of Wulfbauer. Inwardly, Olive hated that; she liked the sharp alliteration of her name. Constance Carwick. It felt right. 'Constance Therrien' felt awkward and muddled on her tongue. She could barely even get it out. It was an annoyance that she focused on, perhaps, to distract herself from the real business of the day. Becoming a duchess. Becoming a wife. The thought nearly took her breath away. Not in a rush of romantic excitement, but like a cold, clawed hand reaching into her chest and crushing her lungs. It wasn't because of Erwin. Erwin was, she knew, a better option than many that might have been given to her. And since their reconciliation after the night she'd moved the earth to save the trapped refugee mages, Olive had made a concerted effort to spend more time with him, at least for a mug of tea, even when they didn't have anything to speak about. And though the idea of having a more intimate relationship with him than that still made her feel a little uneasy, she accepted that he was the partner life was giving her, and she would give it her best. It wasn't him, personally, but what the whole affair represented. For years her life had felt full of possibilities determined by her own agency. Today, she felt, that all ended. Constance Therrien would be bound to duty, whose agency would be determined by the needs of the duchy and her husband.
"There. You look beautiful, Olive." Grace's voice, spoken quietly and only for her, crystalised amidst the din of the room. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Olive could see that Grace's were shining with tears. Olive reached out and squeezed Grace's hand, yearning for her mothers. "Come on. It's time to go."
The scene was more subdued in the Duke's quarters, where Lord Burrows was finishing going over some final details with the Duke – who he was quite sure was not paying attention – while a manservant attempted to ready Erwin for the event. That was, until the raucous sound of laughter echoed down the hall and finally erupted into the room in the form of Kristian and Marcel Therrien. The slightly quieter but genial form of Brendan Burrows, whom Lord Burrows had introduced to the Duke some weeks earlier, and who was staying in the Keep to aid the old Master of Coin with all the necessary arrangements. They passed a bottle, half empty, that sloshed with a fine, peaty-smelling amber whisky between them.
"Watch yourself, Kristian," Marcel warned, pulling a serious face, "you don't want Captian Serious catching you with that!"
Kristian laughed and picked up the nearest discarded glass he could find. "Normally you'd be right enough, but today of all days," Kristian answered in a feigned grave seriousness, pouring a generous amount of the liquid into the found glass, "I imagine our dear teetotal brother could do with a bit of Serenian courage." Placing himself entirely in the way of the poor manservant, whose job was not done, Kristian clapped Erwin firmly on the shoulder and thrust the glass upon him. "Don't worry, we, your brave and caring and ever supportive brothers, selflessly tested it to make sure there was nothing nefarious, no hidden poison, to spoil your big day."
"Aye, though, mind you," Marcel agreed, drinking from his own cup, "I had a look at the old chapel earlier. That gargoyle's still missing an eye. With a wife who's a better shot than half your brigade, poisoned whisky might be the least of your worries."
