"Stop with these foolish ideas," he said sharply, stepping around the desk and heading for the door. "You are just upset. Go lie down, calm down, and by morning this nonsense will have passed. And Ema? Don't dig into this anymore. For your own good."

  Friedrich opened the door and, without a single backward glance, walked back out into the hall, back to the applause and smiles, leaving her standing in the middle of the study with the evidence of his lies scattered across the desk.

  Ema stood there a moment longer, trembling with rage and helplessness. Then she snatched the photos from the desk, crumpled them up, and ran out. She didn't follow him. She needed air. She needed out of this house.

  On the terrace, where she was trying to slip out into the gardens, she ran into Hanna. Her "friend" looked relaxed, a glass in her hand, a smile on her lips. "Ema! There you are," she called out cheerfully. "I was looking for you, I wanted to ask about tomorrow's..."

  Ema stopped. She looked at Hanna with a gaze that could cut glass. She remembered that photo—Hanna toasting Friedrich and Hilda. Hanna, who knew everything and said nothing.

  "I thought good friends didn't lie to each other," Ema hissed icily, tears in her eyes. Hanna froze, her smile turning to ice on her lips. "Ema? What are you talking about?" But Ema didn't wait for anything. She gave her a wide berth and headed away, into the shadows of the garden, away from the lights.

  Hanna remained standing, confused and suddenly very wary. Her instinct told her something serious had happened. She looked around, placed her glass on the railing, and walked back into the hall with a brisk step. Ema stopped around the corner of the building. Her heart pounded. She watched Hanna hurrying, saw her expression shift from confused to agitated. She's going after him, Ema realized. Instead of fleeing deeper into the garden, she pressed herself against the wall and quietly, like a shadow, followed Hanna.

  She watched Hanna burst into the hall, seek out Friedrich with her eyes, and sharply call his name. Friedrich turned, and upon seeing her expression, immediately left the knot of guests. Hanna pointed to his study. They went inside and the doors closed behind them. Ema crept up to the door. It was massive, but not soundproof. She pressed her ear against it.

  "What happened?!" Hanna shrieked. Ema had never heard her raise her voice, but now she sounded furious. "I ran into Ema on the terrace. Her face was swollen from crying and she threw it in my face that friends don't lie! She was fine this morning, Friedrich! What did you do to her?"

  "She found out," came Friedrich's voice, tired and irritable. "She knows about Hilda." "What? How?!" "She described her to me. In detail," Friedrich said. There was the rustle of paper. "And then she showed me this."

  Silence. Ema could imagine Hanna staring at the very same photos Ema had held moments ago. "This... this is our wedding photo," Hanna gasped. "And here I am... God. Someone must have given it to her." "It had to be someone from the Family," Friedrich growled. "Someone who still sympathizes with Hilda. We have a rat."

  "Don't worry about that now!" Hanna snapped at him. "Will this affect tomorrow? What did you tell her?" "I don't know, Hanna," Friedrich retorted. "She's distant. Hysterical. She asked me weird things. Whether we planned this path for her. And if she could leave. At any time."

  "And what did you tell her?" "Of course she can't leave when the wedding is tomorrow! I told her to act normal, that it can't be canceled now."

  "You're an idiot!" Hanna yelled, and Ema flinched behind the door. "Why on earth didn't you refute it? Why didn't you soothe her, keep lying to her?! You had one job—to keep her calm and in love! What will Father say about this?!"

  "I spoke with Father," Friedrich said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. "If Ema does not agree to the wedding voluntarily... I have to..." "You... you're serious?" Hanna asked more quietly, horror in her voice. "Yes," Friedrich confirmed. "If it doesn't work the easy way, it will work the hard way. We cannot afford to lose her. And if she isn't part of the Family... she will be useless to us anyway."

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  Ema covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream. Tears sprang to her eyes, but this time they weren't tears of anger, but of pure terror. The hard way. Useless. She was just cattle for the slaughter to them. She didn't wait for another word. She turned and bolted. She had to disappear. Right now.

  She ran out into the main courtyard. She decided to go through the main gate—there were the most people there, witnesses. She hoped they wouldn't dare make a scene in front of the guests. "Open up!" she yelled at the guards by the gate, trying to push through. Two massive men in uniforms blocked her path. No smiles, just stone faces. "Go back, ma'am," one of them said. "It is not safe for you outside." "I am a free person! I want to leave!" Ema screamed, trying to squeeze between them.

  They grabbed her. One took her around the waist, the other by the legs. They hoisted her up like a sack of flour. "No! Let me go! Help!" Ema roared, kicking wildly. In the distance, on the terraces and in the garden, the guests stopped. She saw their faces. Some looked scandalized, others whispered and covered their mouths with their hands, amused by the "hysterical bride" throwing a pre-wedding tantrum. No one made a move to help her.

  The guards carried her back into the castle, through corridors where her screams bounced off the walls, all the way to her room. They threw her onto the bed and slammed the door. The lock clicked. Once. Twice.

  Ema lay in the dark. Dusk was falling, and with it, her hope. She was trapped. She crawled to the bathroom and turned on the water. She needed to wash off the feeling of foreign hands on her body. She climbed into the hot tub, submerging herself up to her chin. "I am such a cow," she sobbed into the silence, striking the surface of the water with her fist. "Such a naive, young, stupid cow. I believed them. I wanted a fairy tale and climbed straight into the oven."

  She closed her eyes. The water soothed her. Azriel's deep, ancient voice echoed in her head again. "You have decided to walk a path paved for you by others..." Ema opened her eyes. There were no more tears in her gaze. There was hardness. "No," she said to the steam rising from the water. "Not anymore. Tomorrow... tomorrow I walk my own path. Whatever it takes."

  A knock woke her in the morning. It was short, curt, devoid of any feeling. Maids entered the room with the determination of a small army. There was none of that playful atmosphere she'd seen in movies. This was a procedure. Preparing a sacrifice, or crowning a queen—the line between the two was thin.

  "Get up, ma'am. It is time," the oldest one said, and Ema didn't resist. She rose from the bed with a calmness that surprised even herself.

  First came delicate silk lingerie, cool as morning mist. Then the corset. The maid pulled the lacing at the back with ruthless force. Ema felt the fabric constricting her ribs, stealing her breath, but she didn't bat an eye. This is not a cage,she told herself. This is armor. Next came the petticoat, layer upon layer of rustling tulle and lace that gave the dress its volume. And finally, the dress itself. It was heavy, sewn with thousands of tiny crystals that reflected the morning light. When they pulled it over her head, Ema felt as if she were donning the weight of the entire bloodline.

  They seated her in front of the mirror. The makeup was precise—concealing the dark circles from a sleepless night, accentuating her cheekbones, adding the color of blood to her lips. They swept her hair up into a complex, high updo, woven with silver wire and pearls. When they finished and stepped back, Ema looked into the mirror. She was looking at a stranger. She was beautiful, perfect, cold.

  Her gaze slid to the nightstand. Azriel's bouquet lay there. Not a single petal had withered. The flowers still pulsed with that strange, alien life. Ema slowly picked it up. The coolness of the stems anchored her in reality.

  She lifted her eyes back to the mirror, and in that glossy reflection, for a split second, the image rippled, as if she were looking at a water surface disturbed by the wind. Instead of her perfect, painted face, she saw a figure in a brown cloak. It was her. The woman who had died so Ema could live. This time, however, her head was not severed from her body. A horrific, deep red scar stretched across her throat—a thin, oozing line marking where the blade had separated life from death.

  Ema didn't flinch this time. She didn't feel the terror that would have paralyzed her before. She felt a profound sorrow and a strange, fated kinship. She closed her eyes and delved into herself. She didn't utter a single word, didn't even form sentences in her thoughts. With her whole being, every nerve and heartbeat, she clung to that ancient offer. She remembered the promise of help and sent a pure, desperate, yet determined wish out into the void. She focused all her will into a single, silent plea that this power would not leave her to the mercy of this fate. She wanted to survive. She wanted to fight. She wanted that promise to be real.

  In that moment, she felt it.