The air in the chapel was cool and still.

That was the first thing Paloma noticed as she was gently led to the Holy Priest at his marble dais. She took whatever shallow breaths she could manage around the lump in her throat, and grounded herself in the feeling of her dress’ satiny fabric against her legs.

The next thing she noticed was Duke Einar Rinne himself.

His pale hair was neatly coiffed and looked soft to the touch. Everything about him was astonishing to the eye, from his gold-embroidered ivory jacket to the perfect shine of his sleek shoes. He stood impossibly still and imposing, his noble face inscrutable from the aisle.

She was escorted by Artan, who seemed to be taking his job exceptionally seriously. His suit was a deep, rich burgundy that stood out like a splash of blood in the bright summer light. Paloma had been surprised to find him that way when he met her at the entryway. It was yet another difference between the weddings she was used to and the weddings here: there was not a military uniform in sight, despite both Duke Rinne and Artan being commissioned officers.

On the Lis side, Irina’s parents sat alone, hands entwined on the Duchess’ lap. They seemed misty-eyed despite themselves, Duke Lis’ mustache twitching as he dabbed his nose with a navy blue handkerchief.

On the Rinne side, absolutely no one seemed even the slightest bit happy.

Paloma already knew, thanks to Irina’s diary, that the Rinne matriarch and patriarch had died nearly a decade ago. The cause of death was something tragic and unnamed in her writings, but the three Rinnes remaining on the bench — Andor, Clemens and and Asta — provided more than enough disapproval on their own.

Andor was the middle Rinne. Irina had mentioned that he was normally happy-go-lucky, but had an absolutely thunderous temper. He had left home at a young age to become a merchant on the coast, and visited the estate often between orders. Seeing him in person, he was tall and reedy, with a salesman’s smile.

Clemens was the youngest. According to everything she’d heard, he was impossibly sweet. He was scarcely nineteen, and had a vanishingly light pair of blue eyes that were impossibly wide and round. His expression today wasn’t unkind so much as it was disappointed.

Then there was Asta. She had been adopted into the Rinne duchy as a girl, and was the only sister. She had a thick, dark braid over one shoulder and a dour look on her angular face. Her and Einar were the same age, and she’d been nearly as close with Irina as Einar had been.

Paloma was silent as she arrived at her place beside Duke Rinne. He took her cold hands gently, the sheer lace of her gloves doing little to keep her warm from the chilly reception. She yearned for the bright sunshine outside that reminded her so much of the beautiful Lis family gardens.

“The dress is stunning,” the Duke said. A truce, perhaps. Up close, his face wasn't as cruel — but it was sad.

“Thank you, Duke Rinne,” Paloma responded quietly. She kept her grip light and tried not to let her hands tremble. “Your suit is very smart.”

The ceremony itself was brief. If she weren’t there as a reluctant bride, she would have found it charming. The vows were sweet and cloying, resembling the ones she knew closely, with a few tweaks for religious flavor.

She knew she looked beautiful, but as always, it was stolen and not hers to be proud of.

They separated moments after the priest’s blessing, retreating to their respective sides. Irina’s father squeezed her shoulder while Artan and the Duchess pressed dual kisses to the top of her head.

Paloma kept the tears back.

After all, it would be terribly wasteful to ruin the makeup the servant girls had spent so much time perfecting.

___

“Announcing Lady Irina Lis, Duchess Candidate for the Duchy of Rinne!”

As the double doors in front of Paloma swung open, she was struck with an almost paralyzing wall of sound.

It was a far cry from the intimate setting of the little temple.

On either side of a long, ornate rug were dense walls of people. They were all starched within an inch of their lives, dabbing at the beginnings of sweat at their hairlines, straining over one another to get a look at Duke Rinne’s bride.

And she couldn’t help it.

She froze.

Paloma knew the real Irina would never be so shy. She would be magnanimous with her attention. She would greet each noble family by name and with a smile of such honest brightness that it warmed them all from the inside out.

But Paloma was none of those things. She was not cheerful, or bright, or outgoing.

She was timid, reclusive and cautious. Paloma was a bookish coward, not a charming Duchess. How unfortunate it was for everyone that she had taken the place of such a lovely girl.

On either side of her, both of Irina’s parents took one of her hands.

“You will make it through, Paloma,” Duke Lis whispered. His voice was assuring and reminded her so much of her own father that she wanted to weep. “It will all be over soon, and you can begin to settle in.”

She clutched onto both of them tightly and sucked in an inelegant breath that rattled her lungs.

They walked.

It took infinitely longer than it should have to reach the end of that carpet. With her trembling hands steadied by the Lis family, she managed a few placid smiles and nods to some of the waiting masses.

She didn’t miss the way they murmured to one another, furtive glances cast between parties. Was that really Irina Lis? She seemed frail. She seemed quiet. Had her mother’s blood won out after all this time?

She was presented to Duke Rinne. He brushed a lock of her blonde hair from her face, something reminiscing in his eyes.

“You will be safe here.” The Duke said it firmly. The set of his mouth was serious. “I cannot say I will like you, and I will never love you, but I will not let harm befall you. So raise your head, Duchess. This is your home now.”

Paloma raised her head.

The Holy Priest from their ceremony at the temple approached moments later from the same door she had entered through. He had a closely cropped beard and pale robes. In his hand was a scroll, tied with a neat ivory ribbon.

He fell to one knee before them. Apparently the Church bowed to the nobility, here — Paloma tucked that away to think on later.

“The Pope has spoken. I greet the Duke and Duchess of Rinne on behalf of his Holiness and send his most ardent blessings on a fruitful union for you both.”

The moment he concluded, the room burst into riotous cheers. Paloma took an almost imperceptible step back, blinking fast.

“Are they surprised?” She asked Duke Rinne, hesitantly. “Why are they cheering so loudly?”

“The Church has three degrees of blessings they offer.” The Duke’s voice was steady as he watched his siblings shoot him looks of alarm. “If a marriage is granted, they can offer kind blessings — which belies a weak soul compatibility — sincere blessings for a more middling result, or in our case, ardent blessings.”

“So it’s a good result?”

The Duke hummed. “It is neither here nor there, considering the circumstances, but it will be a meaningful advantage for our familial alliance. It means our vows were received very favorably by the Gods.”

The remainder of their Pronouncement went by faster than Paloma could have imagined. She did her best to imitate the bubbly kindness of the real Irina, greeting each guest with apologies for her absence from society and pleading their understanding for the delay in the wedding, as she had been recovering from illness and the Duke wanted her in full health.

At the end of the evening, in her willowy, elegant dress, she allowed herself to be wrapped in the familiar warmth of Irina’s parents and brother, soaking in the smell and feeling of their love like it could hold her over in this cold and barren place.

“You will be just marvelous, Paloma, dear,” the Duchess told her. She peppered her cheek with kisses, and ran a hand down her face, wiping away a tear Paloma didn’t remember shedding. “We are just an hour away by carriage. You are always welcome home.”

Paloma hesitated. “I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, perhaps I shouldn’t —”

“You are not a prisoner here.”

Paloma jumped. She could tell, even without looking, that the voice was much too deep to be anyone other than Duke Rinne. “You have free dominion over our stables as the Duchess — Adela and Leon, I hope you will see fit to visit us here as well.”

“Am I not welcome?” Artan quirked a brow.

“Artan, we share a workplace, I suspect I could not prevent you from visiting, even if I tried.”

And with a sensation that felt dreadfully similar to that night she died, Paloma watched the Lis family board the carriages without her, and tried not to let the dread creeping slowly into her throat suffocate her entirely.