Chapter 3
There it was.
The real wedding ritual.
Not burial.
An obedience test.
Vesper had planned to place me beneath the chapel for twenty minutes after the rehearsal blessing tomorrow.
During that time, she would return to the pavilion wearing my signet ring on a chain around her neck.
Not on her finger.
She had thought that distinction made it respectful.
Then she would issue three instructions.
Nothing violent.
Nothing irreversible.
That was important.
Move one captain from the head table.
Send one senior guard to the outer gate.
Ask the estate steward to give her access to the Blackthorne family room.
Simple.
Small.
Each instruction measured something different.
Social authority.
Security authority.
Household authority.
“And if they refused?”
Vesper looked away.
“You would know who would never accept me.”
No.
She would know who refused a woman issuing orders while the boss was mysteriously locked beneath a chapel.
Different test entirely.
“You were going to classify my people based on a trap.”
“They classify me every day.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Every dinner.”
“Every meeting.”
“Every time someone looks at you before answering me.”
That I believed.
I had seen it.
Ignored it.
Maybe enjoyed it.
Power often feels natural to the person receiving it.
Vesper continued.
“Tomorrow I become your wife and everyone expects me to smile beside you while still asking permission to move a chair.”
“You could have told me.”
“I did.”
I frowned.
“When?”
Three months earlier.
She asked what responsibilities she would have after the wedding.
I answered:
“Whatever you want.”
At the time, I thought that generous.
Now I heard what she heard.
Nothing defined.
Nothing granted.
No recognized space.
Just permission dependent on me.
Damn.
Still—
“You could have asked again.”
She laughed.
“And again?”
“As many times as needed.”
“Until you decided my question mattered?”
That landed.
I let it.
Then pointed to the coffin.
“This still does not become reasonable.”
Her expression broke for the first time.
“I know.”
Not enough.
But useful.
Then I heard footsteps.
The carpenter descended.
Older man.
Gray beard.
Confused to see us.
Vesper went still.
He looked at the coffin.
Then at me.
“Mr. Blackthorne.”
I asked:
“Who ordered this?”
He glanced at Vesper.
“Miss Ainsworth.”
“And what instructions did she give you?”
He hesitated.
“Comfortable lining. Air holes.”
Then:
May you like
“And absolutely no latch on the inside.”
Vesper closed her eyes.
