My future mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, stiffened immediately. Her sharp eyes scanned the girl with open disdain, her lips tightening as if the mere sight of her was an offense.
“Remove her,” she said coldly, her voice cutting clean through the murmurs. “Now. Don’t let her ruin this ceremony.”
A few men shifted, ready to act.
But the girl shook her head, stepping back just enough to avoid them.
“No…” she said, her voice fragile but stubborn. “My mom said… I have to give this… to the bride…”
A murmur spread through the crowd like a slow-moving wave.
I felt it before I understood it.
Something tightened in my chest.
I couldn’t explain it. There was no reason for it. But the moment I looked into the girl’s eyes—wide, frightened, but filled with something deeper, something almost familiar—I felt a pull I couldn’t ignore.
“Let her come,” I said softly.
Margaret turned to me sharply. “Charlotte, this is inappropriate—”
“Let her come,” I repeated, more firmly this time.
The girl approached slowly, as if unsure whether she would be allowed to reach me. When she finally stood in front of me, her hands trembled so badly the locket rattled faintly between her fingers.
I lowered my hands, palms open.