Chapter Text
Even if her corset wouldn’t have been laced so tight, Lucy doubted that she would be able to breathe. Even sleep had eluded her for days on end, the excitement nearly too much to bear.
Now, standing in front of the grand window overlooking their family’s lush green courtyard, she’s not sure if she’s even truly awake. Surely this is all some kind of dream. Surely.
A pinch on her arm reminds her that she’s very much awake, and she whips around to come face to face with her stepmother. Despite a delicate lace sash covering one damaged eye, her stepmother is still radiant, and she beams a smile that Lucy can’t help but return.
“How do I look?” Lucy asks, twirling her voluminous white skirts one way, then the other. The soft swoosh of the fabric barely registers compared to all the commotion outside, with black-clad servants rushing to and fro as they busy themselves serving the guests already gathered. All of high society has turned out for the wedding of Lord Henry MacLean’s only daughter, and her father has spared no expense. Trays filled with delicate champagne flutes float through the sea of dresses and silks, followed by mountains of caviar served in ridiculously ornate mother of pearl shells. Rumor even has it that a few lucky patrons will receive real pearls in their dishes—though Lucy wonders if that prize also comes with a chipped tooth, or a very awkward search through the latrines after a long night.
“You look absolutely terrified!” Lady Stephanie exclaims, causing the nervous laugh that had been building up within Lucy to bubble out unbidden. Her stepmother laughs in response, though Lucy notices it doesn’t quite reach her brilliant blue eye. Maybe she’s just as nervous. Nothing is allowed to go wrong today.
“And Maximus?” Lucy stares at her own reflection, at the makeup applied just a smidge too heavily. She resists the urge to scrub it off and simply straightens her coiffure instead, her brunette hair arranged in loose curls gathered delicately on top of her head. She’s never seen herself look like this, and wonders if she ever will again.
“Shaking in his boots,” Stephanie returns. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a nervous groom.”
Lucy sighs as she thinks of her sweet fiancé, a loyal dog made man if there ever was one. While her father hadn’t been overjoyed at the prospect of her marrying a knight instead of a fellow lord, Maximus’s good deeds in the king’s latest campaign against the revolutionaries carried a great deal of social currency, which was her father’s second favorite form of wealth.
“Come on now,” her stepmother chimes as the orchestra begins to play on the grounds below them. “Let’s not keep your father waiting.”
—
Lucy grips her father’s arm for fear she’ll trip over her skirts and plant down face first onto the gold-threaded runner, which she’s sure her father fears more than her. He grips her just as tightly, standing straight and strong as they begin their slow march toward the altar.
She beams a smile at Maximus, who offers her a goofy grin in return. He’s resplendent in his official uniform, his medals shining brightly in the warm afternoon sun.
Yes, she thinks. This is the right thing to do.
A giggle nearly escapes her as she passes Chet, who unabashedly wipes away tears. He had begged her father for her hand in marriage, only to be soundly rebuked—they were cousins after all. And while it wasn’t unheard of to marry one’s cousin, Chet had nothing to his name besides the MacLean name, and even that he barely hung onto most days.
But suddenly, something glints out of the corner of her eye as it narrowly misses her father’s face. Before she even has time to register what it could have been, the priest stumbles forward from the altar, his white cassock soaked in blood. Maximus has already drawn his sword by the time the next arrow flies, and the next, and the next.
The tranquil afternoon descends into screaming as arrows find their purchase in defenseless chests, the guests scrambling madly over another to escape the chaos. She doesn’t even remember when her father covered her with his body, shielding her from the rain of death. Peeking out from under her father’s arm, she sees Maximus fighting a band of masked men valiantly. Where did they even come from?
More masked men appear, cutting down those trying to flee. Her father’s guards join the fray, but she can’t tell who’s winning or losing.
And, God, there’s so much blood. From where she kneels, the blood begins to soak up and into her dress until she can feel the wet warmth of it against her skin. She tries to look for Chet, or Norm, but can make out only the terrified faces of the dead and dying.
Then, it stops.
She feels her father’s body tighten as he gathers a look around, but the silence is nearly absolute. A few moans and cries sound from those still alive, even though Lucy can barely hear them over the roar of blood in her own ears. As her father begins to straighten, she first looks toward Maximus, surrounded by bandits with their swords drawn. But alive, thank God. He’s still alive.
“What a lovely ceremony,” a gravelly voice croons. Lucy’s head whips toward the source of the sound, finding a tall figure in a long, dark cloak and hat. She can’t see his face, silhouetted as he is against the sun, but she does see him grab a champagne flute from the frozen hands of a terrified server who’s miraculously survived with nearly all of his glasses in tact. But the normally amber liquid within them is tinged now with something else, something redder and fresher.
It’s one of these tainted drinks that the long-coated man downs in one gulp before he casually tosses the glass behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Her father roars. At a single nod of the man, more bandits surround them, pointing their blades at her father’s neck. Lucy raises her fists as if to fight, like her father taught her, but none of the men even spare her a glance.
“You knew I’d come to collect on our debt eventually, Lord MacLean,” the man drawls in an accent unfamiliar to Lucy’s ears.
“The king’s soldiers will have heard this,” her father replies, standing straight despite the swords pointed at him. “They’ll be here any moment.”
“That they will,” the stranger replies. “We best get out of your hair then.”
Strong hands come to grip Lucy’s arms. She bucks wildly, but the fingers only dig in deeper, causing her mouth to open in a silent scream.
“No!” Maximus shouts.
The Stranger briefly inclines his head toward Maximus, before turning back toward her father. “A man should know better than to promise what isn’t his.”
Confused, Lucy shoots her father a look, but he won’t meet her eyes. “Dad,” she squeaks, but the hands grip her harder.
“What does he mean, Lord MacLean?” asks Maximus.
“Nothing. He’s a madman,” her father replies through gritted teeth.
“Ain’t it nice to say something true for once?” The Stranger has a different tone now. Is he laughing? Lucy wonders. Why does she want to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze?
Toward Maximus, The Stranger tips his hat. Maximus struggles, but one step forward draws a thin line of blood from his neck thanks to the nearest blade.
“Stop!!” Lucy screams. “Don’t hurt him!”
The Stranger turns back to her, his expression unreadable. She wishes so bad she could stop squinting against the light so she could see his face. So she could stab him through the eyes, the throat, the heart… anything.
He must sense her instincts, but it only makes him laugh. “You raised a feisty one, MacLean.”
“Just tell me what you want,” her father’s voice now sounds tired, defeated. It’s only belatedly that she notices the arrow sticking out from his thigh and the bright, red stream of blood pouring down his pant leg.
“No!!” she cries.
“I’ll be fine, Sugarbomb,” her dad smiles at her.
“I already told you,” The Stranger nods to the men holding her. “I want what’s mine.”
“I can’t do that,” her father replies.
“Do what?” Lucy asks incredulously, as she realizes that all focus has switched to her. “Dad, what have you done?”
“Now, we got two options on how to handle this,” The Stranger continues as though she hadn’t spoken. “Either you can come with me willingly, or I kill your sweet ol’ knight.”
Maximus steps forward. “Don’t do it, Lucy.”
Tears sting her eyes as she looks first to her dad, then to Maximus. Then, finally, to The Stranger. “Promise me you won’t hurt them.”
“You have my word,” comes the low reply.
“Lucy, no. Lucy!!” But she’s unable to call back as a cloth is placed over her nose and mouth, taking every last bit of fight out of her.