Rosamund
The main hall was ablaze.
Every candelabra was lit, every crystal surface catching and scattering the light until the room glowed as though it contained its own sun. The ivory silk draped from the rafters rippled in the warm air rising from two hundred bodies, and the flowers — fresh ones, replaced that morning — filled the space with a fragrance so thick it felt like walking into a garden folded inside a palace.
The guests had been arriving since late afternoon. Carriages lined the gravel drive in a procession that stretched beyond the estate gates. Noble families from across the eastern territories, courtiers dispatched from the capital, dignitaries whose names I couldn't pronounce, and local gentry who looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified to be standing inside Wellspring for the first time.
They were all here to see me. The Duchess. The first fiancée who'd survived.
