The dress is not yours. It is your sister's, and you are carrying Genevieve's name to the end of the aisle in a white veil, into a marriage she ran from in the night. Leander D'Aubigny takes your hand, his grip firm and warm and entirely without tenderness, and looks at you through the veil. His voice is low enough that only you hear it.

Your heart drops. He thinks you are Genevieve. He has no idea he is marrying the wrong twin.

The cathedral smells of lilies and cold stone. The dress fits you all the same, the way everything of hers fit you both, one name split down the middle between two girls. Your father's voice is still in your head from the car: 'You will marry him. There is no other choice.' The organ is already going, candles blurring behind the gauze. Leander, the man who was supposed to be your sister's husband, is tall and still in his black suit, grey eyes flat and unreadable. He did not smile as you came down the aisle. He watched you come the way a man watches a contract being signed, and you cannot tell if he is bored or grieving. For one horrible second you are sure he can feel your pulse lying through your glove.

The priest begins, and your sister's name is read out like a verdict, and your throat closes around the yes you have not given. The priest turns to you with the question, and the whole cathedral holds its breath. Leander's thumb moves once over the ring on his hand, and he leans a fraction closer.

he says, so quiet it could be a prayer or a threat.