The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) by Christine Dorsey Page A

it. I won’t.” Twisting away from the two faces that stared at me wide-eyed and open mouthed, I stumbled back toward the bed.
    I would climb in, cover myself up and shut out this nightmare.
    And I would have, if not for the glimpse I caught as I passed the gilded mirror hanging above the chest of drawers.
    I stopped, my heart pounding like the drums I heard. Was it last night? They seemed still to echo through my head. Slowly I turned, approaching the looking glass as if I faced the guillotine. My fingers gripped the mahogany chest till they hurt.
    “What...?” Unable to even formulate the question my mouth clamped shut as I stared at my reflected image. It was the image of a woman in the first bloom of beauty: eyes blue, long lashed and clear; mouth and jaw firm; skin unwrinkled and pale.
    I swallowed, watching the motion of my smooth throat before grabbing a handful of the thick, dark hair curling about my shoulders. I yanked, savoring the pain. It was the only real thing in a world suddenly gone mad.
    Tears welled as I realized something else. My legs did not ache, nor my joints. Only my head where I pulled on the thick lock of hair. Slowly I loosened my fingers and took a deep breath.
    “What’s happening to me? Why do I look this way?” I turned toward my mother when I spoke.
    “I have no idea what you are trying to do, Eugenie, but I insist that you stop this instant. Your father is waiting below stairs for us.” That said she turned gracefully and left the room.
    “It ain’t nothin’ to worry yourself ’bout, Miss Eugenie. We’ll have ye lookin’ right fine before ye leave. See?” Mammy’s long fingered hands twisted in my hair, pulling it up in some semblance of style. “Ye just need a bit of fixin’ up. Come on over to your bath ’for it cools and we need to heat more water.”
    I wanted to scream and stamp my feet, to insist that I wished to wake from this horror, to plead with Mammy to stop it. Instead I followed meekly as Mammy led me to the tub. It was as if my mind suddenly went numb.
    The warm water slipped over my body, a body both young and supple; a body that should have pleased me, but I could not stand to look at myself. I sat motionless, my eyes closed as Mammy washed, then dried me. A chemise of finest silk slid over my body before I sat on the bench in front of the dressing table for Mammy to arrange my hair.
    The routine was as familiar as breathing. I turned, my mind now racing, and my eyes met Mammy’s. For a moment, despite the young appearance of her face, I caught a glimpse of infinite age in those dark orbs. Age and wisdom and knowledge.
    She knew!
    Of course she knew what happened to me. She did it. The drums. The dancing and chants. Mammy had cast a spell upon me.
    I opened my mouth to question her, sure that this time she would tell the truth. But before I could speak the moment was gone. Mammy bustled away and my thoughts were in such a turmoil I wondered if it wasn’t best to be quiet. At least until I had a moment to myself to think. A moment to decide what was happening.
    It wasn’t until I descended the wide spiral staircase that I had an inkling. Dressed in a traveling gown of a style popular when I was young, with high waist and no crinolines, I met my mother in the center hallway. I smiled. Despite everything it was wonderful to see her again.
    Her expression didn’t change. “I’m pleased to see you are yourself again. We will, of course, act as if the scene in your bedroom didn’t happen. Naturally we shall say nothing to your father.” She paused, her serious eyes looking toward me for confirmation.
    “Naturally,” I agreed, partly because I didn’t know what else to say, and partly because agreeing with my mother came so easily to me, even after all these years.
    “I suppose it only natural that you should be a bit unnerved. It is not every day that a young woman’s betrothal is announced.”
    “Betrothal?” I tried controlling the anxiety in my