All that worry about the mystery of Prince Quin's seclusion, and now I’m forced to accept that there's nothing strange going on at all. Everyone was right. He is shy, and he is sickly, and as he slumps into a chaise lounge, I wonder how I could ever have imagined differently. All of my apprehensions were just the product of my imaginative wish that this storybook marriage would be more interesting than it is. More important, so that my life's focus would feel worth it. But no one talks about Prince Quin because he's not important. I’m not important. I’m a dispensable, adopted pawn matched with the least significant member of the royal family. My marriage to him is a simple contract with Duke Ellis, and he has no interest in making it anything more.

Deep down, I've always known that. I suppose I should feel relieved, it's almost as though I've escaped some massive pressure, and all the usual bridal anxieties, but I can't help feeling disappointed. Sitting here in my wedding gown while my princely husband nods off on the sofa is hardly the picture I'd had in mind for this night. It's not that I want anything, really, it's more that I don't like being ignored. Why would he ignore me? It's insulting.

Does he have a grudge against me? The thought suddenly pops into my head and for the first time I wonder if he was forced into this against his will. I had just assumed the willing acceptance would be mutual. People get arranged marriages all the time, and he’s so antisocial there's no chance he has a secret lover he'd wanted to marry instead… right? My eyes dart to the door, not far beyond which Nora must reside. Well, I wouldn't mind that. It's also very common.

Giving up on the prince, who appears to be asleep, I stand again and head towards the changing screen. It had taken three people to lace me up, so it will probably take an hour to undo it all myself. I'm relieved to find there's at least bedclothes laid out for me. Thanks to Nora, I expect, from whom I'd dearly love a hand and now wish I hadn't dismissed so quickly.

My fingers fumble with the laces for a good ten minutes before suddenly I feel a hand over mine. I nearly jump out of my skin and jerk away in surprise, but his grip on the laces prevents me. When did he get up?

"You'd be at it all night," he sighs, "I want to put out the lights."

Yet he's surprisingly patient as he gradually works the laces loose, and before I can say anything he's sliding the gown off of me with the air of someone removing a saddle from a horse. It takes every shred of focus to stay poised, to climb out of it gracefully, but I must still look unsteady because he grabs my arm just below the elbow and only lets go once I've safely stepped away from the pile of fabric on the floor. It's so much fabric, and I'm not sure where to put it.

"Just leave it," he says shortly, handing me my nightgown, "Nora will get it tomorrow." His tone doesn't bother to hide how ridiculous he finds my wedding dress. Maybe it is ridiculous, but the train is meant to awe the guests, not the groom, so I don't mind his opinion in the least. At least that’s what I tell myself. If only the guests had actually been awed, instead of staring at him the whole time.

I take the nightgown from him with a little too much force. "Thank you."

Quin doesn't leave immediately, he's still at the edge of the screen with arms folded, looking at me standing here in my chemise. I'm just starting to think that he's finally noticed there's a woman in his bedroom when he looks away again, an odd look of guilt in his eyes.

"You should get some rest," he mutters, turning to leave.

"It's hardly late," I point out rudely, before I can stop myself, and then add more amicably, "I'm not tired."

Quin seems to be debating whether to say something, but in the end he only shrugs and walks away. Instead of returning to his sofa, however, he sits down on a trunk at the foot of the bed and begins to haul off his boots. Next comes the tunic, then the shirt. His upper half is well toned and his skin has a ruddy, sun-kissed glow to it that suggests he actually does spend a lot of time outside, if not in public. I don't even realize that I'm staring until he glances up at me.

I swallow the urge to apologize, and slink behind the screen again to finish my own changing. The nightgown is a lot less fabric than I expected, in fact it's hardly anything at all and barely falls past my bottom. The thin lace frills over my shoulders don't hide much, either. I'm not ungrateful to whoever chose this for me, but hopefully tomorrow I can get something a little more comfortable for the evenings. It's spring, but it's still chilly at night. And anyway, something like this is hardly necessary.

By the time I emerge again he's crawling into bed. The bedside candle is already extinguished, leaving just the light of the fireplace and the wall lantern by the screen.

Really?

Even though I know he's probably ill (shouldn't someone bring him medicine?) and even though I’m sure that he has no intention of ever acknowledging me at all, I actually can't believe he's completely ignored me standing here in lingerie and gone to bed.

I decide to give up for the night and silently follow, sliding under the covers, careful to keep to my side of the bed. It's soft and already I can feel his heat creating a nice warmth under the blanket, but if I can sleep at all it'll be a miracle. At this rate, though, it's the only rational thing to try. I close my eyes and think of wedding cake.