Dorothy stood, frozen, at the back of the chapel, nerves crawling up her skin. There were a dozen pews before her, all of them filled with people who had turned around in their seats to stare. They’d been expecting pretty dresses, flowers, a bride. Not the dirty girl who stood before them, with her white hair and scarred face. She watched as brows furrowed and lips twitched into frowns, confusion breaking out across seventy-five faces at once. Whispers erupted like tiny wildfires, first one person leaning over to her neighbor and then five people, all speaking in hushed undertones, and then, not a minute after she’d thrown the doors open, the whole chapel was talking at once.

“Who is that?”

“—could possibly be doing here . . .”

“Anyone recognize her?”

An anxious smile jerked across Dorothy’s face. Move, she told herself. She took a single step forward, her legs so stiff she thought she might trip over her own feet. Go on, it’s easy. Just put one foot in front of the other.

One step became two, and then three, and now she was walking down the aisle, her eyes straight ahead, pretending that nothing was wrong.

Charles waited at the front of the chapel, a quizzical expression on his charmless face. Dorothy had forgotten that he looked like this, not unattractive so much as terribly, almost frightfully boring. All his features were just where you’d expect them to be, his nose nose-shaped, his eyes a particularly flat shade of brown and set just exactly the right distance apart from one another, his hair was not too long and not too short and parted in the center. It was the sort of face you started forgetting before you’d even managed to look away.

He didn’t seem to recognize Dorothy until she was standing directly in front of him, and then he blinked, twice, and said, only, “Oh.”

“Charles,” Dorothy said, in a rush, “I’m afraid there’s isn’t time to explain—”

“You look so . . . so different,” Charles managed to say. He tilted his head, studying her like he couldn’t quite place what about her appearance had changed. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and lightly dabbed at his upper lip. “What on earth has happened?”

Dorothy was suddenly, painfully aware of the priest and the groomsmen standing nearby, listening to her every word. In the background, the string quartet played on, bravely. The whispers had died down somewhat, everyone waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Dorothy leaned a little closer to Charles and said, in a low, urgent voice, “Charles, there’s a boy in the clearing just outside. He desperately needs your help . . . he’s dying.”

Charles blinked, frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. He looked like he didn’t know for sure what to say. He tried for a smile, then seemed to realize that it wasn’t entirely appropriate and pressed his lips together instead.