Trumpets blare, muffled by the doors. Papá releases me and pulls the linen veil over my head. I welcome it; I don’t want anyone to see my terror or the sweat collecting on my upper lip. The doors open outward, revealing the massive chamber with its curved ceiling and painted adobe. It smells of roses and incense. Hundreds of shapes rise from their benches, dressed in bright wedding colors. Through my veil they look like Mamá’s flower garden—orange clumps of bougainvillea dotted with yellow allamanda and pink hibiscus.

The herald calls, “His Majesty, Hitzedar de Riqueza, King of Orovalle! Her Highness, Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza, Princess of Orovalle!”

Papá takes my hand and holds it at shoulder level. His is as wet and fluttery as mine, but we manage a forward glide while a quartet of musicians strums the marriage blessing on their vihuelas. A man stands at the end of the aisle, black clad. His shape is blurred, but he is not short or stooped. Not fat.

We pass stone columns and oak benches. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a lady, a splotch of blue fabric, really. I notice her because she bends and whispers something as I pass. Her companion twitters. My face flushes hot. By the time I reach my tall, steady fiancé, I am praying for pockmarks.

Papá gives my slick hand to the man in black. His hand is large, larger than Papá’s, and it grips with indifferent confidence, as if mine does not feel like a wet, dead fish in his. I want to wrench my fingers back to myself, wipe them on my dress maybe.

Behind me, a sniffle echoes through the hall; Lady Aneaxi’s, no doubt, for she has been teary with nostalgia ever since the announcement. Before me, the priest warbles about marriage in the Lengua Classica. I love the language for its lyrical vowels and the way it feels against my teeth, but I can’t pay attention.

There are things I have refused to consider in the days since the announcement. Things I have pushed deep inside with study and embroidery and pastries. And suddenly, standing here in my wedding terno, my hand in the iron grasp of this tall foreigner, I think about them, and my heart pounds.

Tomorrow I go to the desert country of Joya d’Arena to be its queen. I leave the jacaranda tree outside my bedroom window to bloom lilac without me. I leave my painted adobe walls and trickling fountains for a stone castle a millennium old. I leave a newer, vibrant nation for an enormous beast of a country—one scorched by the sun, and stale with the traditions that made my ancestors leave in the first place. I’ve not had the courage to ask Papá or Alodia why. I’m afraid to learn they are glad to be rid of me.