Someone clears their throat then, and I startle. That and movement at the back of the chapel draw my attention, and I feel instinctively guilty. But I need to remind myself that I’m not doing anything wrong. Even if Santiago were to find me here, he certainly couldn’t accuse me of anything.

“I just…” a soft voice starts. She steps out of the shadows. “I was lighting a candle.” She’s holding a long thin white candle in her hand. She’s not wearing a mask, and I recognize her instantly. She’s looking at me with the same wide, almost frightened eyes.

It’s the girl who’d hidden behind the statue the night of the marking ceremony.

I smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I realize when she turns that she’s pregnant. I hadn’t noticed it before. I’d only seen her face, and even that partially, and I hadn’t noticed it now, either, not when I first saw her a moment ago. She has one hand under her belly, the tight moss green dress she’s wearing accentuating its roundness against her otherwise petite frame. I see how her wavy strawberry-blond hair falls to her waist down her back.

She sets the candle in the holder, mutters a prayer in Latin, and bows her head as she makes the sign of the cross, then turns to me. She’s pretty. And young. My age, I guess. I watch as she walks down the center of the aisle more swiftly than I’d guess she could with her oversized belly. She stoops to pick something up from one of the pews. Her mask.

“You’re Santiago De La Rosa’s bride.”

I nod as she comes to stand a few feet from me, mask in one hand.

“I’m Colette.” She extends her free hand.

“Ivy,” I say, shaking hers. It’s small and hardly a handshake at all.

“It was getting a little much out there,” she says and holds her mask up, then lays her hand on her belly again. She takes a seat on the edge of the closest pew and bends down a little, trying to reach for something.

That’s when I notice she’s barefoot and what she’s reaching for are a pair of strappy golden sandals that must have a four-inch spiked heel.

“Here, let me get them.” I stoop to pick them up and set them where she can slip her feet inside. “Those can’t be comfortable. I mean, with…” I gesture to her belly.

She smiles wide, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “They’re not comfortable when I’m not pregnant either. But you know how they are.” She gestures to the door, and I assume she means men in general.

I sit beside her and nod, wondering about her. Why would her husband make her wear those shoes when she’s obviously not comfortable?