The air in Raymond's wing of the mansion always smelled of lemon cleaner and lies. I stood still as a seamstress knelt at my feet, her mouth full of pins, marking the bottom of a gown I never wanted to wear. White silk. The irony was bitter. The crowning day. The wedding day. Two horrible things, coming closer with every tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Raymond watched from a velvet chair, a satisfied smirk on his lips. "It will be the event of the decade, my dear. The pack will ...