Schuyler visited a host of dress shops on the plaza but found nothing that worked. The dresses were all too beaded, or too voluminous, too corseted, or too revealing. She wanted something simple and clean, a dress that promised fresh beginnings but also hinted at the swoon of surrender. She was about ready to give up the search—surely Jack would not care what she wore, would he?—could she make do with what she already had?—maybe that white cotton sun-dress?—when she found a small fabric shop tucked away in a dim alley by the Ponte Vecchio.
The elderly shopkeeper smiled. “How can I help you, signorina?”
“Could I see that? On the top shelf over there?” Schuyler asked, pointing to a bolt of fabric that had caught her eye the minute she entered the shop.
The old woman nodded and climbed the creaky ladder to bring it down. She laid it on the counter and unwrapped it slowly. “It is a rare Venetian silk, made by artisans from Como, the same way since the thirteenth century,” the shopkeeper told her.
“It’s beautiful,” Schuyler whispered. She touched it reverently. It was a fine silk, soft and supple, light and airy to the touch. She had thought she would wear white—she was not so contrarian as to think she would get bonded in anything else. Yet the fabric she had chosen was the palest shade of blue. To the naked eye it looked ivory, but once you took a closer look you could see the hint of cobalt under the light.
Hattie had taught her a little about dressmaking, and the moment Schuyler saw the cloth she knew it was what she had been looking for all day. She paid for the fabric, her heart beating, her cheeks flushed with excitement at the task at hand. When she returned to their quarters that evening, Jack was still away. She borrowed needle and thread from the supply cabinet and started to work. First she cut a pattern on the muslin: the dress would be off-the shoulder, peasant-style, then drape and flow to the ground. That was all.
As she stitched, she sewed all her wishes and dreams into the dress, threaded there by her blood and her love. She felt a profound sense of joy and anticipation. Not for the first time, Schuyler wondered how she could be so lucky.
When she was done, her fingers were sore and her arms were tired. Night had come, but Jack had not yet returned. She took off her clothes and tried on the dress. The silk felt like water to the touch. She faced her reflection in the mirror with some trepidation, worried about what she might find. What if she had chosen wrong? What if Jack did not like it? What if it didn’t fit correctly?
No. She had nothing to worry about. The muted blue color made her blue eyes shine even more brightly. It fell beautifully off her shoulders, and she decided she would wear her hair down.
It was the first time that Schuyler understood that she was actually going to be a bride. She clapped her hands to her mouth and tried to hide her smile. But it was too much—the happiness bubbled inside her, and she twirled in front of the mirror, laughing.
The sound of footsteps made her stop. Jack. He had returned. Quickly, she took off her bonding dress, hung it carefully in the back of her closet, and put her old clothes back on.
She did not believe old wives’ tales, but she did not want him to see her in her dress until their bonding. Maybe she was a tiny bit superstitious after all.
TWO
Dark Circle
They had been together for only a few months, but Schuyler knew the sound of Jack’s step by heart, and something about the footsteps approaching the room sounded strange—as if someone was trying too hard to sound like Jack. She was instantly on alert, and removed her mother’s sword from its hidden sheath, grasping its jeweled handle tightly. She stood by the side of the door and waited. The footsteps stopped abruptly, and there was only silence. She sensed that whoever was outside that door knew that she was aware of the deception, and she slowed down her breathing and calmed her nerves.
When the door opened, its centuries-old hinges turned without creaking, and Schuyler realized her unwanted visitor had set a spell of silence around the room. No one would be able to hear her scream for help. Not that she needed any. She could defend herself. When the tip of a sword appeared at the opening, she held her breath and steadied her hand, ready to attack.
A black-clad Venator entered the room, stepping soundlessly toward her across the rough wood floors. The black-and-silver cross on his clothing marked him as one of the Countess’s men, and Schuyler felt absurdly thankful that he was not from the New York Coven.
She lifted her weapon. The Venators’ relentless pursuit had added misery upon misery to her life. She never felt safe anywhere, and the opportunity to finally face that fear and fight a hidden and unstoppable enemy came as a relief.