The wedding would be held that summer.

It was sooner than Paloma would have liked, but she was used to being quiet, so when they asked her what she thought, she didn’t protest.

The preparations were arduous, despite Duke Rinne and the Duchess taking the lead on event preparation. Irina was kept busy with dress fittings, visits from the jeweler, and a laundry list of bookkeeping and etiquette she had to brush up on before taking over as the official Duchess Rinne.

In between it all, she read Irina’s diary.

It was one part compulsion, one part a favor to the girl she’d stolen a life from. If this was Irina’s only wish of her, she hesitated to deny her something so small, no matter how badly it hurt to do.

It was a mostly happy read, with the occasional mention of the curse, or that her time drawing to a close. In the margins she liked to write notes for “my future sister” that she took special care to underline twice.

Paloma had given herself a reprieve from reading, just for today, though.

Today was her final appointment with the tailor. It was the end of spring now, just on the cusp of the solstice. That was still a big event here, much the way it was back home: a festival of light and joy.

The celebration was marked by an enormous gathering full of spiced food and buckets of fresh flowers. The nobility mixed with the townsfolk on such occasions, shedding class for the evening to enjoy yard games and mead.

Paloma wondered if Duke Rinne would be going, even though she would not.

But, today — well, today she needed to leave the safety of the Lis estate for the final fitting of her gown. She was to go directly to the shop this time, so the seamstress could have access to her full set of tools to make the final adjustments, and so Paloma could select her final veil from the dozen or so she had prepared.

It was there where Artan met her and the Duchess, the impressive swell of a delicate coin purse at the ready.

“I promised her,” Artan told Paloma, with a sad, private smile. He was still in his day uniform, bright hair brushed back and out of eyes, a line of medals pinned to his lapel. Just like Duke Rinne. “She saved this to purchase your dress for you. A gift, from sister to sister.”

Even though she wanted to throw up, Paloma accepted the purse graciously and bid Artan farewell.

The fitting itself was more solemn than it felt like it should be. Paloma was silent as she was helped into the voluminous body of her gown by two handmaids, and quieter still as her hair was carefully gathered into a pretty braid to pin her chosen veil to.

It was a gorgeous dress.

The Duchess drew a loud breath as Paloma was led to the mirrored room for final measurements in the natural light.

The skirt was full and simple, with a fitted, beaded bodice that fell elegantly off her shoulders. The sleeves draped from her elbows, sheer and embroidered with delicate flowers.

“You look stunning,” the Duchess told her, eyes glossy. Her proud face had an expression Paloma couldn’t quite place. “It is exactly what I thought you would choose.”

The handmaids scurried away to gather the seamstress, and Paloma turned to the Duchess. “This is what Irina would have chosen?”

“Not Irina, dear. She was much flashier.” The Duchess smiled. It was serene and impossible to describe to someone like Paloma, whose own mother had scarcely worn anything less than a scowl. “You.You are a very classic and very poised young woman. This is exactly what I imagined you would have chosen. It is just perfect.”

Paloma’s cheeks reddened. She twisted the ring around her finger. “Thank you, Duchess.”

The Duchess joined her at the mirror, adjusting Paloma’s braid over her shoulder, and wiping a stray strand of blonde hair from Paloma’s face. “Again, if you are not comfortable calling me mother, you are welcome to call me Adela. But there is no need to treat me so formally, dear. We see ourselves as your family.”

Paloma blinked at her. She’d grown used to the dry feeling of these big, wide eyes. They were so different from the ones she’d been born with. “I was taught to refer to my mother with deference.”

The Duchess tilted her head. “Is that quite common in your original world?”

Paloma dipped her face so the Duchess couldn’t see her expression. The beads of her bodice were suddenly fascinating. “Well… no. Not particularly.”

“Then it sounds like perhaps your mother is not the example we should abide by.”

Paloma paused. She wove her fingers together, worrying her lip between her teeth. Something almost manic and happy bubbled in her chest. “Yes, my —Adela. Yes, Adela, I will try to be less formal if it pleases you.”

The Duchess sighed, and went back to work neatening Paloma’s hair. “Well, I’d love for you to do it for you, but it’s a start. Now, Paloma — what do you think of this dress for the Pronouncement? Can you move comfortably?”

The remainder of the appointment went smoothly enough. The Duchess allowed Paloma to make the payment alone, the coin purse — so obviously Irina’s with its delicate pattern and embroidery—trembling in her hands.

___

It was much too short a time from that final fitting to when Paloma began packing her things.

It had only been 18 months since she’d “arrived,” but the estate had begun to feel familiar in a way that ached to leave behind. The last night before the wedding, with her brow furrowed and eyes wet, she joined the others in Artan’s study for her final evening as “Irina Lis.”

She had become most comfortable here out of anywhere else in the house. The Duke’s study was too spacious, too official. The other rooms were much too gauche, or roomy, or filled with servants who just wanted to be helpful and instead ended up being anything but.

Artan was a military man. His office was spartan and utilitarian, but it was also warm and comfortable. The furniture was a bit ostentatious, but the rug was plush and the fire was full.

The Duke and Duchess joined them there often, tracking them down playing games of strategy after dinner. It had begun a ritual that the servants left them to without bother. Just the four of them, sequestered away, normal.

“You know that you will always be welcome in this house,” Duke Lis —Leon— said firmly. “If Einar gives you even an unkind word, we will spirit you back here. Let the Rinne family do what they may.”

“Father...” Artan sighed, but rested his head on his palm, swirling a glass of caramel-colored liquor. “Well, perhaps it is okay to say this here, without anyone the wiser. It’s true, sister. I respect Einar as a man and a commanding officer, but if you are unhappy there, there is scarcely a thing we will not do to take you home.”

Then and there, it hit her. The thing in their voices that she had so much trouble placing.

It was the same way she called Adora’s name, those nights she made dinner in their sterile estate kitchen. The way she mended her own clothes so Dora could have the newest fashions at their shared boarding school, even as their mother squandered their remaining fortune.

The first deposit she took from her trust when she was in university, so she could take Dora to see the holiday lights the next city over, because the estate was still tied up in court. The gentle rub of her hand over her little sister’s cheek as she fell asleep, weeping about how mother had — yet again — missed her concert, or recital, or tennis match.

It was love.

“I promise,” Paloma said, with more feeling than she expected. “I’ll tell you if things are terrible. And I’ll visit as often as I can. And I promise to write. And Artan, you must visit too —” she took a breath, and put her flushed face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotten quite emotional.”

The Duchess smiled at her, wide and appreciative. “We love you, Paloma. You. Not the ghost of Irina. I know that’s hard to believe. But we’ve had so long to make our peace with Irina’s passing, even before you were here. We loved her fiercely, and still do. You did not steal her away. You were a blessing to help us heal.”

“Okay.” Paloma said. She felt small. But she felt warm and safe, underneath this umbrella that called itself family.

“Irina loved you too. At least, she loved knowing you would be here.” Artan said it with a tilt of his glass to the sky. “I’m sure it’s hard not to notice. She burned bright and fast. She didn’t hold grudges, and she was true to herself until her dying day. She wouldn’t have traded places with anyone. Take some of that with you — that courage.”

“I will.” Paloma took her glass from the table and sipped it delicately. “And if I am desperately unhappy… I will do it. I will come back —” she swallowed. “Home.”