I looked ready to strangle someone—as Ophelia drew me in front of the big, bay window.
Ophelia was flustered, excited as two of the aunts made their way through the crowd with a bundle tied in black silk.
She brought her hands together as if in prayer, then touched them to her lips. “My little bride,” she said bringing her hands down, clasping them against her breast. “We are so happy, so honored to welcome you into our family and our clan. We are Artamae, the hunters.”
Yes, from Rhodes. Dimitri had shown me pictures of the ancient gates to one of the cities the clan founded. The carvings of the sacred deer were still visible on the walls. In old times, the people could see griffins and would make offerings of the best kills from their hunt. When I’d squicked out a bit, Dimitri reminded me that I liked deer sausage. He’d had a point, I supposed.
“You are our family now,” Ophelia said.
I took a deep, calming breath. “I’m glad,” I said. I really was, even as Dimitri lowered the phone and turned to give me a glance that said all was definitely not well.
“And so,” Ophelia said, her eyes growing misty again, “we have made your wedding gown!”
I gripped my drink glass. Not another one.
“It is our tradition,” she said. “Each woman in the clan gives something to the dress. Some choose the silk. Only the best. Some work tirelessly on the stitching. Hand done. Every bit. Some work hard to inspect each and every bead for the bodice…”
Hillary stood, stone-faced, at the back.
She deserved it.
“We keep adding and adding and working until,” she unveiled the dress. “You have this!”
Creely spit her drink.
I would have, too, except I was frozen in place.
It was made of silk, all right—yards and yards of silk, like a Southern Belle intent on drowning herself. And there were beads…everywhere. On the bodice, down the front, streaking over the sleeves, wound around the high, choking neckline like snakes. And these weren’t pretty, dainty glass beads or pearls. They were shaped like sunbursts and seashells and I even spotted a few sand dollars among the complete and utter chaos.
“Damn.” Creely said.
“Wow,” I said, trying to recover, but the light was catching the sequins on the poof-ball sleeves, and frankly, the whole thing was such a train wreck, I couldn’t stop looking.
But it was made with love, given with no strings attached.
The Greeks weren’t trying to change me, or hurt me. Ophelia and her clan only wanted to make me happy.
In fact, it was perfect. If I couldn’t have my dress, this was the next best thing simply because it was the exact opposite of everything my mom was trying to force on me. If Dimitri pulled off a miracle and got my dress back, I’d find a way to bow out of this graciously. But if not, revenge was best served with a million seed pearls.
“As you may have heard from all the yelling,” I said, “I have a dress picked out. Still, there’s been an accident.” I started to warm to the idea, and to my mom’s shock in the back. “If my dress doesn’t arrive,” which it would, it had to, “I would be touched and honored to wear this dress.”
The Greeks cheered.
My mom dropped her cocktail.
Ophelia held up the dress while I took another look at what I’d agreed to wear. Danged if it didn’t make me smile. I couldn’t help it. I had to admire it. “The bow on the butt is huge.”
“That is mine!” An elderly aunt called out from the back. Her relatives on either side patted her on the arms, congratulating her. “I hand sewed each sparkle.”
“That must have taken forever.” There were sequins all over it. And there were matching bows on the sleeves. “And butterflies on top of the bows.”
My mother looked like she was going to hurl.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t get over it. I could wear it twelve times and still see something new every time.
“The butterflies are mine,” said a somewhat shy, younger women, seated on a couch near the front. She wrung her hands together, tucked her already-tucked hair behind her ears. “I wanted even more, but they said it could get busy.”
“If you want to add more, feel free,” I told her, fingering the large silk insects on each shoulder of the dress. “The more the better.”
She blushed.
Bring ‘em on.
At this point, Hillary had recovered enough to start making her way to the front. “As gorgeous as this is,” she said, sidestepping Greeks, “I really must insist Lizzie wear my old gown, for sentimental reasons.”
“You’re over-ruled,” I told her. “Now,” I addressed the room, “who wants to see me try on my dress?”
The Greeks were ecstatic. Mom looked ready to faint. And I was trying to figure out where to go to change.
“Try it on over your clothes,” Ophelia insisted. “As much as you can.”
“I’d love to,” I said, as she began unhooking the dozens and dozens of extremely large buttons that ran down the back.
“Each of these is handmade,” she said. “Some are more fine than others, depending on the skill of the button maker.”
Ophelia and Grandma held the dress open to me. I stepped in as the young woman from the front rushed up to help me into my sleeves. They had a loop that went over my middle finger, effectively covering half my hand and making it look like I was wearing part of a glove that attached to my sleeve. It was a design at least twenty years past its prime. Perfect.
“You will love this,” Ophelia said, starting with the strangling buttons at the neck. “Dimitri will love this.”
I think Dimitri would love it if we could skip to the actual wedding. Come to think of it, that would be my choice, too.
They turned me toward the window in order to work the large buttons in the back.
The dress wrapped around me too tightly. I tried to move and adjust a bit.
“Vivi, Antonia!” Ophelia called.
Two more sets of hands joined in the prodding and tugging. Oof. There was so much fabric.
It was hard to stand still. The inside lining was prickly. The seams stabbed under my arms. The lace dug into the base of my throat. It tightened as they slipped the buttons closed. This was worse than wrestling an imp. I should know. And at least with minions of the underworld, I could stab them and put us both out of our misery.
I swallowed, tried to speak but nothing came out. They’d probably crushed my windpipe.
Dots formed in my line of vision as Grandma gave me a vicious tug from behind. “Suck it in,” she ordered.
I whooshed out a breath, brought both hands to my stomach and tried to cast a smile over my shoulder at the array of in-laws on the couches.
I turned back and came face-to-face with the ghost. I jolted, which caused the hands at the back of my gown to pull back harder.
It was
She stood on the other side of the window, wearing an old-fashioned, high-necked white gown. She brought her hands to her throat.
“What?” I croaked. I was drowning, suffocating.
She watched me silently.
I looked down at my own hands, ready to draw them to my own throat, when a trickle of blood leaked from my right sleeve.
