When I was nine, I stole a ring from The Waterford Museum. The justifications that I had for this crime were finite. Since I lived less than a hundred feet from its rightful home, I believed that it would hardly feel like stealing. It fit almost perfectly. I watched through the window, daring my parents to pull onto our street. The scarlet hues of twilight fused with the amber stone on my hand, setting it ablaze. It seemed as though I was wearing fire. It felt as though if I wore it long enough, it would burn straight through my finger, then the floor and finally engulf the entire building in flames. I was intuitive enough to recognize the sting of guilt within this strange wave of emotion. Yet, my desire to have the ring for my very own outweighed my shame.

I never stole again. At least, within the confines of the material world. So how could I possibly explain the return of this sensation? I could feel it brush against my skin as Henry moved the wedding band onto my ring finger. I felt it tenfold when I looked down and saw the matching set on our two hands, clasped and shaking with raw nerves. I was half of this ceremony, half of our marriage and yet, I felt so much like an outsider looking in.

We were whisked through the tiny chapel like groceries on a conveyer belt. We signed our license with a plastic keepsake pen, snapped a few pictures with the Elvis impersonator who married us and opted out of ordering any of the additional merchandise that they offered. They would have talked me into a bucket hat for Giselle, but there was another wedding starting in five minutes. We were happy to escape. Our heads were reeling and it hardly felt true. When the hotel elevator door shut, Henry pulled me into his arms. There was no kiss, no fire, no passion- just a warm and loving embrace. Considering I was feeling somewhat conflicted, it was alarmingly a far more welcome gesture. But newlyweds were not supposed to behave this way. Were they?

"Marigold Anderson," he muttered as we pulled apart, falling back into our own bubbles of personal space. A charming smile surfaced but did not quite appear in full. "Your veil is askew." He moved to fix it, but my hand intervened.

"It's not needed where we're headed!" I gave him a flirtatious wink and started untangling the plastic comb from the back of my head. There was a mirror directly behind Henry. I looked into it as the cheap veil became unanchored and with it, the largest clump of hair that I had ever lost. My first time in recovery included. Blood rushed to my face, my pulse banged loudly in my ears and I hoped with all my might that he had not seen. To my relief, he had not. To my despair, something that mattered more to him than his newly wedded wife had claimed his interest. A small collection of brochures had been placed at the front of the elevator for guests to take, leave, deface or to simply keep them occupied as they climbed the 33 story tower. He reached past me and removed one from the back of the stand. He unfolded it, giving me just enough time to stuff the horrifically large wad of hair into the pocket of my dress. "What's up? Henry?"

"If we leave the hotel before five tomorrow morning, we should be able to make it-" he muttered.

I stole a quick glance at the front cover. "The Las Vegas Natural History Museum? You're kidding, right? No museum in America has ever opened its doors before 8 AM! And our flight is at 7."

His attention to the literature in his hand hardly waned. Without removing his eyes from its glossy pages, he pushed the round plastic button that would return us to the ground floor. My heart nearly sunk. Surely, it would have if I wasn't so wrapped up in the fantasy that was unraveling before my eyes. "We have just enough time to visit the exhibit today."

"This is what I get for marrying a historian!" A strained laugh crackled before combusting in the back of my throat. "Must be one helluva rocking cool exhibit!"

He went to reply with a faint "mhm", but was far too engrossed to finish the sound.

To be fair, my armor was so heavily cracked by his disengagement with me, with our wedding night, that I refused to inquire about his distraction. I followed him through the lobby and onto the street, the white polyester chiffon of my dress dragging carelessly behind me. I turned some heads, sure, but for all the wrong reasons. Never before in the history of Las Vegas had there been a more dismal looking bride. What is worse, the night was young.

I knew how it felt to plummet on a man's priority list. In the furthest reaches of my mind where all of my fear and pessimism was stored, I understood that our fondness for one another would eventually grow cold. I would have to brace myself for this inevitable abandonment. But on this night? The simple recollection of it all is still enough to give me whiplash.

He joked with me on the cab ride there. I don't know if he felt guilty or if he was misguided by the broken smile that I was forcing myself to wear. Mindlessly, he chimed out one random fact after another about The Waterford Museum- my old home. I grinned and nodded without listening, without caring. When we arrived, he held my door just long enough for me to disembark. The short train on the back of my dress was not so lucky. He didn't hear the rip as I tore it away from the moving taxi. I had cried over dresses that were less significant. By all means, I should have been a wailing mess. But the tears that found my eyes on the steps of the museum had little to do with torn gowns. They had everything to do with the man ten feet ahead of me and already halfway through the door.

The air inside was stale and musky. An endless maze of taxidermy stretched out before us, covering the entire floor. There were polar bears and jungle beasts, mighty giraffes whose horns were jammed against the ceiling and just about every other creature imaginable filling the spaces in between. Henry found the ticket counter next to an adult bison who watched us both with plastic, amber-colored eyes.

"The drawings are on the top floor," he passed me a yellow stub of paper at the end of a hasty exchange with the clerk. "They say we can stay until close."

"Drawings?" I finally asked, feeling only slightly guilty for not doing so earlier. "That's what this is all about? I don't understand. You're a historian. Don't you have connections and access to all the historical drawings you could ever wish to see? Why get all amped up over some random, commonplace collection? In Vegas, no less!"

"These are different. At least, I hope they are. It's hard to explain.."

I sighed, trailing behind him several yards. In order to get to the elevators, we had to pass through a sorry excuse for a gift shop. A small display of craft kits stole my attention. I guess we were even now. There was one to make sock monkeys, another for hand puppets. As I sifted through them, I even found one that was meant to teach children how to make muffins. Complete with a mini muffin tray.

"Boris would love this!" I pulled a small collection of cards from my pocket that were held together with a yellow rubber band. If anything, this would tell Henry that I intended to do a little bit of shopping before heading up. "I'll catch up with you in a bit, okay?"

The black dress shoes on his feet came a squeaking halt and he turned. "Are you sure?"

"They have muffin kits. Trust me, I'm sure."

Henry approached me, pausing long enough to give my forehead a tiny kiss. "Thank you for coming here with me. It means so much." Then without haste, he dashed towards the elevator bank and vanished behind a sliding silver door.

My heart felt stretched and worn. Like one of those old, giant parachutes that took up nearly half the playground at Waterford Elementary. I could only last one more violent recess before being torn to shreds. As I browsed, I twirled my hair mindlessly around my finger, losing just shy of twenty strands in the process. The expression on my face must have matched my frustration. The second that the nearest retail worker caught sight of me, he asked if I was doing okay and whether I needed any help.

"Doing wonderfully, thank you," I forced a smile, twisting and tangling the fallen tresses between my fingers. "Hey, this is kind of a shot in the dark, but do you carry any hats? I'm having a bad hair day."

The boy nodded and directed me to the back of the room where a large mirror and hat rack stood. I thanked him and began perusing the small collection of baseball caps and bedazzled fedoras. Indeed, I was beginning to believe that this was the most eclectic gift shop in the known universe. As if to illustrate my point, I found an end cap that held several beekeeper's hats and veils. Now this was exciting! Beekeeping was a little-known fascination of mine- a little-known dream. In fact, the only person who knew about it in full was Giselle. I tried one on, then another, grinning like a fool all the while. The reflection in the mirror looking back at me was strange and frankly, hilarious. But I didn't care. I added one to my armful of goodies for Boris and Giselle and made for the front counter.

I wore the silly thing on the way to meet Henry. I don't know why but it made me feel better. The metal panels that surrounded me on the ride up were reminiscent of a funhouse mirror. I enjoyed watching the varying images of myself. The juxtaposition of a wedding dress and a beekeeper's veil amused me, inspired me. Perhaps I would wear this exact same getup if we renewed our vows. Perhaps not. Dream weddings never pan out. I had one once, not too long ago, but that dream was quickly swapped for the reality that I was living in now. Perhaps if I lived within this reality long enough, I would come to prefer it to my dreams. That is what I was hoping for, anyway.

The elevator dinged and opened its doors. I was expecting the exhibit to be immediately accessible, but one had to pass through a long hallway before arriving at their destination. It was a dark space, illuminated only by long strands of fiber optic lights. They jutted out of the walls like anemones, spilling every imaginable color into the open. I stopped to watch them. There was something mesmerizing about their movements across my veil. My eyes were overstimulated, they had to be. How else could I possibly explain what happened next- other than a hallucination brought about by retinal fatigue?

The fabric in front of me ruffled. As it moved, I saw a collection of images pass before me. They looked familiar, like a row of stained glass windows that I had seen before a hundred times. It was the main stage at Theatre Zipp. In the pews, I saw representatives from nearly every family in Waterford. I continued to walk forward, towards some bright unknown at the end of the darkness. The only unfamiliar face that I could find was at the center of the stage. I could see him, but just barely. Most of his body was covered with golden light. He was taller than Henry with dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders. His eyes glistened when he saw me- glistened with joy, with love. The nearer I moved, the harder it was to see him in full. The nearer I moved, the more the picture grew distorted.

The shape of the light shifted to form a square window. Unlike my short-lived dream, the window was of this world. I had made it to the end of the tunnel and into the exhibit. I did not have to look long for Henry. In fact, he was standing across from me the whole time, staring dolefully at a portrait on the wall. I placed my hand on his shoulder and glanced at what it was that seemed to be holding him captive. His eyes barely moved from the canvas.

"I'm going to look around," I gave him a tiny smile that likely went unnoticed. It was a small gallery that housed a small collection of drawings. Most of them were created by Major John Andre during his doomed career in the America's. While they were fascinating artifacts, I understood why Henry gravitated towards the portrait. It wasn't long before I went over to admire it, myself. He hadn't moved and wouldn't move until the curator came to turn off the lights. And that, embarrassingly so, is the story of how Henry spent our wedding night with Peggy Shippen.

Yikes! It's been ages! I honestly don't know if these stories have a readership anymore, but if you're returning after this prolonged hiatus- welcome back and thank you! Honestly- thank you for bearing with. It's challenging picking up after so long. Challenging, but not impossible. Waterford has always felt like a real, tangible place to me and I still have so many ideas for this world and its characters. I hope that this is true to whoever may read these stories. I re-read them all and in a sense, revisited Waterford bit by bit over this last year. The more I write about it, the more it feels like I never really left. So, I'm back- ready and eager to share these stories again. With the world and with myself, too. :-)