The Last Thought Was of the Novel

Water slapped me in the face first, not gentle, but more like sharp pins stinging the skin while I moved fast over wet pavement.

Light reflected from the river below-wavy smudges of gold and white, dancing where the current twisted. When I stopped trying to press forward, metal pressed hard against my spine. A man's voice cut through the downpour.

"Give it up, just hand it over", then everything went hollow, empty, nothing filling the space but the air rushing past. My mind held one image before dark: pages fluttering in a bookstore window, that unfinished story waiting.

Crashing into the water didn't feel cinematic. It tore through me, sudden, brutal.

Ice-cold shards punched out every breath. Gagging, I swallowed thick with motor slime and rot. It never once crossed my mind to struggle. Limbs turned heavy, useless. Thinking grew thick, warped, distant.

Last thing I remember thinking while sinking into cold black water-no flashbacks, no loved ones popping up, nothing about the guy who shoved me off the dock.

A story came alive on those pages.

It was a worn book, cracked down the middle, pages bent from too many readings. Earlier today, my mind kept drifting back to her.

Paige Rimestone, the minor figure who shared my name. She vanished halfway through, taken without warning, barely more than background noise. Turning the page felt hollow after that. What a shame, really.

Filth from the river jammed my mouth just as awareness slipped away.

The moment my eyes opened, heat pressed against my skin.

It started with confusion, straight off. Heat pressed in, thick and complete - more than warmth, almost like water. Soft layers wrapped around me, weighing me down with gentle insistence. The pillow under my head yielded slowly, like foam molded just to my head. Breathing hurt to start, yet the air tasted pure, sharp. Lavender hung in it, mixed with a smell of pages left too long on a shelf.

Light hit my face. That was when I saw the room.

Above, rose silk floated like water, stitched through with silver that flashed when the sun moved. My eyes opened, then stopped, the feel on my eyelids was wrong.

I shifted and heavy red waves, wild and strange, spilled across my collarbone.

A sudden jolt tore through me, sharp and raw. What was frozen just a second before twisted hard inside my chest.

No.

Rising onto arms that seemed oddly thin, almost fragile. There were my hands, showing now. Light skin, sleek lines, stretched fingers ending in neat tips. Not mine, those hands looked like another person's. My fingertips moved to touch my face: sharp bones high up, rounder chin, plumper mouth than I remembered.

The sound was sharp, broken uttering fear.

The door opened.

"Ah, you're awake! I told your mother it was just a faint, nothing more."

Fiftyish, she bustled inside, face soft yet lined by years, silver tresses combed back with order. Blue cotton clung to her form, an apron spotless, tied at the waist. Staff. It clicked without labor, her function, then her name swam up: Marianne.

That was the real shock.

"Miss Paige," she said, crossing towards the window, her voice firm and yet soothing. The strong light streamed in as she pulled back the heavy curtains, sending tiny dust motes shimmering in the air. Faint on the final dress fitting, easily expected with the excitement and corset lacing almost as tight as it gets.

Out of nowhere, she started talking like we shared secrets. Like my skin fit her life.

"Fitting?"

I said, the word scraping out like a whisper. This tone, lighter, smoother than before, sounded too refined. Almost foreign.

"Of course, your betrothal gown!"

Marianne laughed-a gay, melodious sound. She stepped forward and laid a cool, dry hand on my forehead. "No fever. Only nerves. Perfectly normal for a jeune fille on the eve of such an alliance."

Betrothal. Alliance.

Words descended like boulders deep within me. Behind my eyes, images tumbled-fast, pages, not memories. He stood there, handsome, eyes keen, pale gold. Music swirled in a large ballroom and dancers glided. Every day for six months, silence had reigned. Rain lashed, wheels lost traction, and the car disappeared over the side of a mountain.

A heavy pressure came first, sudden, violent. This knowledge didn't show up gently; it pressed against my ribs until breathing hurt. Not at all like hearing an ending ahead of time. More like sitting frozen in a theater where the screen shows only how you die. Every second shown. No escape built into the scene.

I strolled inside the story, one marked to fall. Then came the moment that stopped the breath mid-step.

"Marianne," I whispered, my throat tight. "What… what day is it?"

Eighteen days into Greening, that's what it is," she said, hoisting me up. Legs shaking under my weight. This room was larger than any I had previously occupied, filled with chunky wooden furniture, its shadowy outline spilling onto rich carpet. Tonight finds the Zephry gathering. The word will be passed - hear it in whispers - that you are promised to Lord Christian. Her voice brightened, her tone like offering a gift beyond measure.

That was a name that ran a shiver down my spine. Christian Zephyr-sure, a smooth talker on the pages, but behind all the charm sat an razor-sharp hunger. His plans didn't need me breathing much longer. With me gone, sorrow draped neatly around his shoulders, he'd be standing taller in her eyes, money and grief opening doors no kindness ever could.

The silence was heavy, thick with dread. The hours passed as if pulled by some unseen string. Down into the bathroom she took me, her voice sewing together words about guests and songs and petals. None of it germinated in my head. A form filled the doorway-my mother, serene but restless, with those pale gray eyes now in my face. The words tumbled out one after the other: responsibility first, safety for everyone afterwards, then something about pride being at stake. That was how she framed it.

"Just smile, my darling," she said, placing her trembling hand on my cheek. "This is everything we have worked toward. Everything we need."

My throat constricted. Not because I was afraid of noise, but because truth was like dust in my lungs and refused to be coughed out. She stood there, unruffled, while my mind sprinted toward exits and tunnels, any dark gap he couldn't reach. And to say it out loud was like handing them keys to the cell myself. Yet four walls and silence sounded much kinder than to stand at an edge, waiting.

Time leaked between the hours like smoke. Hair that used to spring free was twisted up tight, held fast by sharp little pins. A layer of powder settled on my face, cool and thin. Someone dressed me and I stood still. The mirror showed a figure made for something somber - something final.

Evening light stretched dark shapes over the floor when Marianne came back. Quiet now, her smile gone, she moved like someone holding her breath.

Well, well, well, young lady, she muttered to herself.

A long dress dangled from her hands.

It was filled with darkness. Not quiet shadows, but something bitter, as bottomless as the ocean. Shining fabric reflected light like dark glass at midnight, its stiff neckline rising to almost touch my face, arms swathed in close-wrapped cloth. Angular lines dominated its form. Nothing dulled its edges. Grace and terror confronted me. "The Rimestone betrothal gown," Marianne breathed. "A tradition. To signify the solemn vow." A shape draped it. Not hiding - just being there. My legs held still while she pulled it on. Cold weight draped down, rustling faint against my dress beneath. Spinning me round, she worked each small black button closed behind. Every click echoed like a bolt sliding home. Finished, she led me toward the tall glass standing in the corner. A face appeared-unknown: white skin, big grey eyes fixed ahead, lost in folds of dark fabric. Not quite real-more like something from an old painting. A figure draped in mourning lace, silent as a shadow. Behind me, Marianne stepped closer, our eyes meeting via the mirror. Hers shone bright, wet with unshed tears. You look. every inch a woman meant for palaces, she whispered, her tone thick with something profound. Was it pride? Sorrow? A strand by my forehead needed fixing; her fingers settled it with gentleness. They will be so very surprised to see you My voice faded away. The tugged heavy fabric on my shoulders weighed down; the truth that now rested in my chest hovered closely next-her knees buckled under it all. A gentle press of her hands on my shoulders-her last touch. Back she moved, straightening the fabric at her waist, head rising slow. Her eyes met mine, not with service in mind, but like a mother watching a child walk into storm weather. Silent, Lord Christian awaited. Her words, articulate and unyielding, cut through the stillness. A silence was followed, thick with just three spoken phrases. Polite delivery made the verdict worse.