CHAPTER EIGHT
The wedding was not what Angelica would have hoped for from her nuptials. She stood at the entrance to the church of the Masked Goddess, only recently scrubbed clean of the evidence of the funeral, and trying to ignore all the imperfections. When she had dreamed of this day as a girl, imagining the triumph of it, it had not looked like this.
There had been no time to organize things as they should be. The wedding was too hasty for that, reusing elements from previous celebrations to make ends meet. Angelica was sure that the flowers set around the walls were the same ones that had been there for the Dowager’s disposal. It was an insult in its way.
“And not the only one,” Angelica whispered to herself, her wedding mask stealing away the sound of it. Her dress was one she’d
