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Uncle Gideon grasped both her shoulders, bathing her in a loving look. “You’ve much of my sister in you, Vangie.” He kissed her on the forehead, then admonished gently, “The wedding will take place tomorrow. I’ll hear no more talk of it.”

Pouting and complaining would change nothing. She had her pride. She would not beg. Head bowed, lips compressed, she nodded again. If it were only her reputation at stake, she would refuse the match. The Roma would take her in. But her aunt, uncle, and Yvette had much to lose too. She could not—would not—bring censure upon them.

“That’s my girl.” Uncle Gideon folded her into a warm, what should’ve been comforting, hug. Instead, it felt like imprisonment.

Unshed tears blocked Vangie’s throat, and she couldn’t speak. On a sob, she jerked from his grasp and bolted to her bedchamber. Throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to her heartache and wept until sleep’s forgetfulness claimed her.

A bird’s chirps woke Vangie the next morning. She opened her eyes, curving her lips at the cheerful streams of sunshine slanting across the bedchamber’s rugs and wooden floor. What a glorious day. Stretching her arms overhead, she froze as an unpleasant memory shattered her happiness.

Today she’d wed.

She let her arms fall to her sides with a thump. The smile eased from her face, replaced by a frown of despair. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her unbound hair circled about her shoulders. Resting her chin on her knees, she considered the pandemonium of the past couple of days. Everyone had been in a dither, rushing around, preparing for the nuptials.

Such silliness. Why bother with the falderal when neither party wanted to wed at all? Vangie had observed the fanfare with numb detachment, uttering short, monosyllabic replies when her aunt asked for her opinion.

“Peonies or roses?”

“Peonies.”

“The peach silk or the white muslin for Yvette?”

“Peach.”

“Bonnet or wreath?”

“Wreath.”

“Tongue or ham?”

Tongue or ham?

At last, she could take no more. Yesterday, she’d slipped into the wingback chair before her balcony window and rested her aching head against the smooth, silk back.“Aunt Adélaid,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you and Yvette do what you think best.” She’d raised a hand to her brow and closed her eyes against the nagging twinge. “I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”

“But, Vangie, don’t you want…?” Yvette began.

Vangie had lowered her hand and turned her head, resting her cheek against the soft, smooth fabric. She’d met Yvette’s, round, worried eyes. “I truly don’t care a whit what you decide.”

She’d known without being told the sparkle was gone from her eyes. She could have no more summoned a smile than she could have conjured a spell to prevent the travesty of a marriage to Lord Warrick. Turning her head to gaze out the window once more, she had breathed a small, silent, and altogether hopeless sigh.

Now, the dreaded day was upon her.

Vangie shoved off the heavy coverings and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before sliding to the floor. Her gown was a wrinkled mess from having been slept in. Grabbing her shawl from a chair, she draped it around her shoulders and padded to the French windows on bare feet.

Throwing them open—for the last time—she stepped onto the balcony, disturbing a jay grooming itself on the rail. It scolded her soundly while flying away. A pinkish-brown feather floated slowly from the sky, swirling round and round to settle on the landing beside her foot. She retrieved the fallen feather, brushing her fingers along the crisp edge.

Lucky creature. It can fly away from its troubles.

For a fanciful moment after leaving Uncle Gideon’s study the day the marriage was announced, she too had contemplated flight—had actually intended to flee to her Romani relatives. He must have considered she might try to run away. For she hadn’t been alone, except when she slept, since. She suspected her uncle had her room watched at night too.

A cool breeze wafted by, and she wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The silk-fringed edge fluttered, and a stray curl caressed her cheek and tickled her nose until she tucked it behind her ear. She bent over the rail, breathing in the tangy air. Even though it had rained last night, the dank, noxious smells of the city lingered heavily this morning.

She missed the fresh, clean air of the country, and she missed her Romani clan. Heart heavy with yearning, she turned her focus toward home. A rainbow struggled to show itself amongst the myriad of ashen clouds gliding across the distant horizon. When the clouds finally passed by, the colorful arc would be free from its gloomy confines. At least the rainbow had some hope of reprieve.

She harbored none.

For a moment when she’d awoke, she’d forgotten the wretchedness she faced today. How she wished last night, the awful conversation with Uncle Gideon, had been a horrible dream. She’d cried herself to sleep hoping—praying—Lord Warrick would jilt her.

She peered at the sun-drenched courtyard below. Two robins hopped in the grass, tugging fat worms from the damp ground. There was yet time. A few hours remained before the wedding took place. Maybe he would cry off.