Orchard of souls

Chapter I

Zoe

The flowers had withered two hours ago.

The sweet scent of June had seeped into every corner of the room. Though they had been picked only last night, the flowers Zoe was meant to carry in her bouquet died one by one before dawn. An unusual thing. Each aberrant tick of the clock on the wall made the young woman fidget even more inside the tight gown. The satin cinched her waist, making her seem far smaller than she already was. The layers of skirts weighed down every movement. The lace of her gloves caused the most unbearable itch she had ever felt, as though she were about to be thrown into a ring of fire.

She looked absolutely ridiculous. Her hair had been twisted into the most intricate braids her dear maid had learned, all in the name of perfection. Even the way the light spilled over her flushed face displeased her.

It was said that the morning of one’s wedding was the most beautiful moment in a woman’s life. What more could she possibly want? She had prepared for this for years, reading and memorizing every page of the books her kind mother placed before her day after day. She was the first woman in her family to marry above her parents’ rank. And she would do so not out of obligation but out of pure love and destiny. The cursed flowers mattered little to her. She only needed to ignore the sweat pooling in her palms and the strange way air seemed to exit her lungs. Not even the unnatural chill of June could stop this day from becoming hers.

It was far too quiet for her liking. The Ashford estate was usually filled with music, one way or another. It seemed that even Beatrice’s birds dared not sing, fearful of ruining the moment.

She had not seen her mother in over two hours. She had been surrounded by servants adjusting her face, fixing stray strands of chestnut hair that insisted on escaping. She had awakened long ago. She could no longer remember the cool embrace of the silk sheets. The only thing on her mind was him: Edward. The man she had wanted from the very first moment their hands brushed by accident during a simple tea.

“Miss Ashford, it is time!” Margaret’s delighted voice echoed from somewhere in the main hall.

Zoe barely heard her. Her thoughts flooded her so completely that she did not even notice herself turning on her heels and carefully crossing the dimly lit room. Even the sun seemed unwilling to display its rays that morning.

The entrance hall of the estate looked as it always had. The only difference lay in the flowers arranged on either side, guarding those who dared to cross it. The air smelled of freshly picked cherries intertwined with apricot jam and newly gathered vanilla. Something she had never experienced before. She had no doubt the cooks had labored all night to prepare a feast worthy of the most important wedding of the season. A wedding awaited by two families for years, planned down to the smallest detail. Even the silk of the shoes she struggled to fit onto her feet had traveled hundreds of miles, across turbulent seas, to be part of this spectacular moment.

Music surged in abrupt waves, crashing against the wallpapered walls and reaching the most hidden corners of her heart. Now she could hear every single sound, loud and clear. It was inconceivable that anyone could fail to feel the happiness vibrating through the air. Whether they wished it or not, the entire world bore witness to a love written in gold by destiny. She floated down the stairs, careful not to step on the train faithfully trailing behind her. Light flooded the salon through four immense windows hidden behind long lace curtains. She could vaguely make out the silhouettes of the two women of the family seated near the piano, surrounded by boxes and blooming gifts. Evidently, every noble family in the area had been eager to display their wealth through wedding presents: hats of all kinds, ceramics brought from the East, spices and costly silks. For them, the day was yet another opportunity to showcase their social standing just as it was for the bride’s family. A mere game of society, where the main characters were nothing more than pawns tossed upon the chessboard of life. Zoe could have tried in vain to explain how her heart beat in unison with Edward’s. They would never have understood.

When she finally reached her mother, her expression softened at once. Her brows and eyes relaxed, the lines of time briefly fading away. Her chestnut hair was swept into a coiffure far too elaborate for Zoe to comprehend. Thin lips curved into a fragile smile as she gently opened her arms toward her daughter. Charlotte Ashford had always been a woman few had encountered in those days: warm, refined, and courteous, unafraid to show her love for her family openly. Everything Zoe fiercely despised.

“You are enchanting, my dear,” her mother’s voice rang above the piano music.

“Thank you, Mother,” Zoe replied shortly, carefully taking her hands in her own.

The clock struck loudly just before Charlotte could part her lips again. They both knew what it meant. Without another word, Charlotte, Zoe, and Beatrice Ashford lifted their skirts and made their way toward the place of promise, the church.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

Her heart pounded as it never had before. She felt it in her throat with every labored breath flooding her body. Her palms were already damp beneath her white gloves and she struggled to keep it from becoming evident before her father. In the hall before them sat, in neat rows, some of London’s most influential families. Every gaze was fixed on the door, like starving hunting dogs awaiting the rabbit’s emergence from the bush. For them, it was hardly a wedding in the truest sense. Each waited eagerly for gossip to savor at the banquet or for some misstep bound to occur, as people always did. Few cared how the girl’s gown shimmered in the faint morning light or how her hair cascaded in waves down her back, entwined with the veil covering half her face. Only he could care.

She felt the world come to a halt. She could not even fathom how she had managed to reach him. Edward’s warm gaze enveloped her at once. She dared not blink from the moment they met. He touched her hesitantly, as though afraid to disturb even a single strand of her hair. Zoe feared making any sudden movement, terrified that the fantasy of happiness unfolding before her eyes would shatter.

The priest stepped forward, breaking the magic Zoe and Edward had been greedily consuming. His low voice began to recite words in a language vaguely familiar to her. Latin spilled solemnly and dully across the scene like a curse she had never heard before. It bore little resemblance to the prayers God was meant to receive.

The blood came without warning.

First, it stained the white of her gloves and the purity of her wedding dress. Then it marked her pale, terrified face. She barely felt the carpet beneath her feet as her bones began to tremble and she clung desperately to Edward’s body as it collapsed. They struck the floor. Her scream filled the room. Everyone rose in alarm, fearful, shocked, furious.

Edward Hartville collapsed into the arms of his future wife, blood spreading across the blue suit he had only just purchased.

Somewhere in the other realm, the thread of his life thinned until it could barely be seen by the gods.