Alain’s father walked towards them, larger and darker than his sons. “Thomas,” he said heartily, clasping her father’s hand. “Edna. You look beautiful. And here’s little Alva, all grown up and ready to be married.” He appraised her for several beats too long. Her cheeks heated. Of course he knew what she’d done. When his eyes drifted downwards, she tried to take a step back, but her mother’s iron grip held her in place.

“And this is my wife,” he said. The woman was pale, wraith-like, her long golden hair seeming too heavy for her head. Her eyes were the same pale blue as her sons’—Alva had wondered whom the boys took after, they looked so unlike their father. Mrs. Webster was a pale reflection of the twins, like looking back at them through deep water.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” Mrs. Webster breathed, extending her hand. When Alva took it in her own it was cold and thin, hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Alva shook it cautiously. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Alain’s mother was rumored to have some sort of rare blood disease, and looking at her, Alva could easily believe it. She didn’t look well enough even to be entertaining in her own home. When her husband spoke again, the woman flinched, as if he could bowl her over with the strength of his voice alone.

“Well, come along then,” he said, steering them to their seats. “Nothing fancy tonight, my wife tells me, a simple family meal.”

“It seemed nicer,” Mrs. Webster whispered after a silence. “Since you’ll be part of our family soon, my dear.” She nodded at Alva, or possibly her head had become too much for her neck to support.

“How lovely,” Alva’s mother said, exchanging a quick glance with her husband. It was unusual to eat almost immediately after arrival, but perhaps this was the Websters’ way of welcoming them. It occurred to Alva this might be the only time she saw Alain before the wedding—her family wouldn’t be hosting his, because of his mother’s condition.

Alva was seated between her father and Mrs. Webster, forced to crane her head to see her fiancé. When she caught his gaze, he looked away, leaving a little ball of dread growing in her stomach. Across the table, his brother watched her, a little smirk in his gaze. She ignored him—everybody knew Alfred was jealous of Alain.

Service began promptly, and Alva turned to her future mother-in-law, determined to make a good impression. No indication of judgment had come from the woman, which, considering the circumstances for the hasty wedding, would have been understandable. Come to think of it, Alva hadn’t felt much of anything from her—she seemed drained, faded. Undoubtedly from her long illness.