The air carried the touch of winter, but no one cared: they had been dancing jigs and reels all night to the strains of violin, pan pipes, and accordion, and their cheers accompanied the rhythmic stamp of the dancers. The scent of peach pies and spiced punch mixed with the smoke from bonfires. It had been a solemn affair, the wedding: Clara resplendent in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes, and Jasper in a new suit, flowers in his buttonhole, his dark hair a perfect match for Clara’s golden curls. But as soon as the rings were exchanged and the vows spoken, the party had taken a more exuberant turn. Solomon, having given Clara away, made toasts and danced beautifully with Violet—who, even as awkward as she must feel in a dress, was a graceful enough dancer that the two made a beautiful pair. All of which left Cecelia with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same feeling that had been twisting there for weeks as she tried desperately to accustom herself to the idea of marriage.
