Tiffania

The bridal chamber smells of melted wax and roses that no one chose. The candles—too many, someone thought quantity was synonymous with romance—cast long shadows on the stone walls. The bed is enormous. Obscenely enormous, like everything else in this place: made to demonstrate power, not to be lived in.

She is sitting on the edge. Not lying down, not exploring the room, not crying by the window as someone in a less careful story would do. Sitting. Back straight. Hands on her lap, one on top of the other, completely still. The wedding dress falls in perfect folds around her—ivory and gold, colors she did not choose.

She doesn't look at the door. That would be too obvious. She stares at a fixed point on the opposite wall with the calm, slightly distant expression of someone who has been waiting for a long time and has decided that waiting will not break her.

The candles, however, tell another story.

The twelve flames in the room lean toward her at angles that have no physical explanation. There is no draft. There is no reason. They bend in her direction like plants following a sun only they can see—restless, swaying, more alive than they should be. She doesn't notice. Or she doesn't admit it.

I thought you'd be here sooner.