Will glanced at his smiling bride through the heavy lace of her veil. She winked at him coyly, nodding with a roll of her eyes towards the priest who was now droning on in a perpetual hum of biblical Latin. Will smiled back. Even in silence, Aletté's salty sense of humour was as loud as anything.
The congregation rose again and began reciting the Lord's Prayer, yet still in this indistinguishable Latin. Will had a knack for languages, but being emerged in Spanish one moment and Latin the next was far too much.
"You think the old bag'll ever shut his trap?" Aletté murmured, eyes fixed inconspicuously on the altar.
Will rolled his eyes. "God can hear you, no matter how quiet you whisper." He muttered.
He saw her smile from the corner of his vision. "Then why does this priest have to be so bloody loud?"
Thankfully, the couple were seated just far enough away so that the congregation could not hear their snickers. Distance did not save them, however, from a scathing glance coming from a starch-faced nun seated in the choir loft.
From far back in the crowd, Cori squirmed in her seat next to her soon-to-be husband. She craned her neck as far as it would go, scanning over the sea of bald heads and elaborate hairdos for a glimpse of her dear Will.
A lump formed in her throat. He was never mine to lose.
She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, but it did not obey. Her teeth sunk deeper into the already raw flesh, been made so by constant chewing in previous hopes it would make them red. A tear rolled down her cheek, and even she could not tell whether it was from her sadness, or from her pain.
The Englishman's hand covered hers. It was clammy and coarse. She shuddered.
"Hold still." He commanded in a harsh and threatening whisper.
Cori continued to squirm.
"Hold still!" He repeated.
She summoned all her guts and tried with so much effort to keep still. Her fingers itched from the sweaty hand draped over hers. Her breasts ached from being bound up in such a tight bodice. Her lip quivered. Her foot began to tap impatiently.
How long did this ceremony last?
"Hold still, harlot."
And suddenly something in Cori snapped.
She wrenched her hand away from that of the Englishman, springing to her feet noisily and storming from the ornate arches of the cathedral. She ran towards the river, all the while knowing that she would be disclaimed the moment she showed her face again.
Right now the Englishman was probably coming up with some cock-and-bull story to feed to the church about how she was a very fragile person and that he had no part in this breakdown. But it didn't matter; Cori ran.
Away.
Away from the gossips, away from the rumours, away from the nickname, 'the Black Widow', away from Will and his not-so-innocent or blushing bride, away from corsets, bodices, rogue, powder, charcoal-lined eyes, hypocrisy and ceremony.
Away.
Into the river, under the waters, her hair fell loose from its pomade. Her rogue washed away, as did her powder, the paint around her eyes. She tore off the tight bodice, leaving nothing but a creamy blue shift on. She plunged again beneath the waves.
Society had made Cori break beneath its pressure, and now she was free.
But back at the church…?
Constructive Crit always welcome!