Look Beyond What You See

Wedding Plans

 Lady Berkeley's drawing room, otherwise known as Zinaida's favourite place in the mansion, is truly a terror to behold. The room is entirely decorated in pale pinks and purples, from the carnation petal ceiling to the lilac-strewn floor. The walls are wisteria and pink roses interlocked in a forever repeating pattern, and the few windows hide behind pink tulip curtains that exactly match the upholstery of all of her overstuffed furniture. Pink lace and wispy pink chiffon ruffles adorn virtually everything as well. I bite my lip to keep from hissing like a cat at this most offensive interior, and Dmitri has to subtly push me into the room. It makes my skin crawl with its overdone femininity. My wedding will not look like this.

"Welcome, my darlings! Thank you for coming so quickly on such short notice," Zinaida coos, Russian accent thick, as she rises from a chair by the fireplace, where a fire is lit; this chamber is more oppressively stuffy than ever my own were. Now I know the origin of this ridiculous practise of lighting indoor fires in June.

"We could never refuse your invitation, Mother," Dmitri replies, only slightly sarcastic. She is not listening to him and so this goes unnoticed. Her attention has been stolen by the parade of servants marching into her drawing room laden with fabric samples, flowers, food samples, pictures of cake designs, pictures of designs for our attire, and so on. Half a dozen men of God in their ceremonial robes trail at the end of the procession, all with somewhat dour expressions.

"I intend that this afternoon we shall resolve all the particulars regarding your upcoming wedding," Zinaida continues brightly. Her chief of personal staff, a stick-like old woman with skin wrinkled as a prune's and a mouth puckered as though it were full of lemon juice, directs the movements of the procession's members so as to arrange them throughout the room. This effeminate prison is much larger than I thought. Everyone and everything seems to fit with relative comfort. The temperature in here will soon be stifling, with so many bodies so closely kept and no air circulation whatsoever. I pray this ends quickly.

"All of them, Mother? Surely that will take more time than what we have before supper," Dmitri remarks.

"Pish-posh. I really already have most of it done. You and Aerys simply must confirm my decisions. Where do you want to start? I think the church decorations would be the best place to start--"

"Have we even a venue yet? And what do you mean, we have only to confirm your decisions? Is this now your wedding? I was under the impression that you and Wesley were quite happily wed with a lovely gallant son," I interrupt, using the sickly sweet honey and arsenic tone my grandmother used with me immediately prior to my departure from her summer chateau. Zinaida flinches and reddens. Dmitri shoots me a glance that says I've already overstepped the line of propriety. Oops.

"Of course we have a venue. There's simply no question about it. You'll be married in the family chapel. It's at the end of the West Wing. Surely you've taken her to see it, Dmitri? A lovely place it is, though in the Anglican and not the Russian Orthodox style.... Truly, there is nothing better than the Russian Orthodox style, but Lord Berkeley flatly refused to permit such a cathedral to be built here."

"And how looks the interior of this chapel? I have not been to see it, myself. Whenever my family deigned to visit a chapel, it was always a Catholic establishment, ours being a French family, and as such I have no idea quite what to expect." This intelligence causes Zinaida to purse her lips in disapproval.

"Yes, one of the few things to which we objected in your upbringing. No matter. Trina, dear, do bring me those paintings of the inside of the chapel. Aerys wants to see them." The sour-faced chief of Zinaida's staff brings forth a few small, framed canvasses that show in images lackluster compared to those I've seen of Dmitri's the interior of the chapel. I am not disappointed except in the quality of the paintings, which is in itself a surprise; indeed, I find the place quite pleasing. "Now, darlings, I was thinking that your wedding theme colours would be light pink and dark blue, and the decorations would be dark blue fabric and pink carnations and roses. Antoine has some renderings of my idea. Bring them here, that's a good lad. Look here, around the altar we'll have...." Zinaida babbles on and on, but I've stopped listening, growing unbearably angry at the nerve of this woman. Every woman should be able to dictate how her own wedding looks, even if her marriage is arranged. Dmitri's face is impassive and he appears to at least be listening to his mother. Is no one to save me from this? Must things really work this way? No. Things do not have to be this way. But I shall have to save myself.