Behind us, Kurt and Theodore are leaning up against a bridal Cadillac and drinking out of a flask. When I walk into the cathedral, it will be the furthest I’ve moved in public without them in almost ten years. My stomach twists. I wish I wasn’t alone. My brother Harris wanted to walk me down the aisle, but mom said no. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was my daddy or no one for Mr. Parker.

“January?” Carolyn tugs my arm. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”

I think of Zia Teresa, of the St. Christopher medallion against my chest. Protection for whenever you journey from home. “I’m fine. I’m wonderful.”

The music changes to a slow, melodious song. I haven’t heard it before, but it feels familiar. Inevitable. As though in the back of my mind, it’s always been playing. The song I’ll walk down the aisle toward Mr. Parker to.

Carolyn looks like she’s about to pass out. “Okay, January. Now!”

I move automatically, slowly in time with the music. I’m aware of my whole body. My feet in my kitten heels, the lace shifting across my thighs, the air brushing my bare shoulders, the circle of warm metal at my breast.

The crowd turns to face me, a thousand-headed monster. I keep my gaze unfocused and walk forward, one step at a time. The aisle is so long, Mr. Parker and his groomsmen are just tuxedoed blurs. I haven’t met any of his friends before. Maybe we’ll become friends too and I’ll entertain them and their wives at dinner parties. I could make arancini and stuffed artichokes.

I pass Senator Billingham, Princess Clara of Sweden, my father’s old friend Joshua Price the third, and Uncle Benedict, the patriarch of the Whitehall family. He gives me a small smile and relief floods through me. Whatever else happens, I’m making my family proud.

My stepmom stands in the front pew, flawless in her lavender Chanel suit. Her eyes sweep me for imperfections, narrowing when they fall on my cleavage.

Sorry, mom. Not my choice.

Her gaze flicks from my chest to Mr. Parker and I know what she’s trying to say. Look at your husband. Do your duty.

I obey and meet Mr. Parker’s eyes. His round face shines with sweat and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks are apples. The song swells around me and I smile like I practiced in the mirror, but inside my stomach turns over.

Mr. Parker’s tongue flashes out, licking his lips, and my left heel turns underneath me. I stumble sideways and gasps echo around the cathedral.

“January!” Mr. Parker makes a nervous motion forward, but my gaze is caught by a flash of gold. Behind the alter, a blond priest grins at me. I know that man. I met him once during pre-wedding counseling. Archbishop Bancroft said he was Father Monastero and said he was there to take notes. But why is he here now? And where is Archbishop Bancroft?

Cursing myself, I straighten and continue my way down the aisle. A murmur of relief rings around the church and Mr. Parker steps back into place.