The air inside smelled of white roses, hairspray, and warm silk.

Tailor’s racks and garment bags lined the far wall.

Margaret Ulette was not there; she was down in the main dining room inspecting the floral centerpieces at table one.

Clare stood in front of the floor-length gilt mirror near the window.

She wore an ivory silk gown with tiny seed pearls embroidered across the fitted bodice.

Her veil hung long over her shoulders, reaching down to the lace trim of her train.

When the door latched behind me, she turned around.