Three days.
That was all that remained between Marcella and her wedding day—a truth she had managed to ignore until now. The sheer absurdity of how close it was made her stomach coil. She had been so absorbed in unraveling mystery, the half-truths she scraped from smiles that never reached eyes... that she'd nearly forgotten she was supposed to be a bride.
The sun filtered lazily through gauzy curtains. Bolts of silk and lace, neatly rolled, lined the far shelves. Sketches of gowns had hung from strings.
Marcella stood in the center of it all, her eyes flitting from one sketch to the next, and her heart oddly calm for a woman counting down to what felt more like a coronation than a celebration.
The door creaked.
She didn't need to turn to know someone had entered. She could feel the presence. A woman, certainly.
"Lady Marcella," a feminine voice greeted. "It is a pleasure. I am Madame Eloise."
Marcella turned.
