Chapter 4: A White Ribbon Twisted In Evelyn’s Hands
I kept one arm around Sophie and used the other to steady the white ribbon at her neck. It had loosened when she fell against me, one end caught beneath the collar of her flower-girl dress. My fingers shook as I worked it free. The ribbon was soft, narrow, and already marked where my hand had pulled it too hard. Sophie’s fingers remained twisted in the fabric of my navy dress, holding on with a strength that did not belong in such a small hand.
I checked the ribbon first, then her cheek. Blood had run in a thin line from her forehead toward her temple and stopped near the corner of her eye. The smear looked brighter against her fair skin than it had from across the ballroom. A tear moved through it, leaving a clean track. Her blonde hair had come loose around the white ribbon, and several strands clung to her damp cheek.
The white dress spread over my knees, bright beneath the ballroom lights. My navy skirt was bunched around it, dark enough to make every pale fold stand out. I had seen Sophie dressed for the formal gathering only minutes earlier, careful and proud, smoothing the front of her dress while the ribbon rested neatly at her throat. Now one hem was creased from the marble, and the white fabric near her shoulder carried a faint gray streak.
I pressed the napkin back to the place where the blood began. Sophie flinched, and her fingers tightened in my dress. I stopped moving. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on mine. I lowered my hand until the napkin rested without pressure, holding it there as carefully as I could.
Across the open space, Preston had not left.
His black tuxedo remained perfectly arranged except for the tension in his shoulders. The red rose at his boutonniere looked too vivid against the dark lapel, a small spot of color that drew my eyes whenever I looked up. He stood near the entrance with his fists at his sides. The oak menu board lay between him and us, no longer upright. Its gold calligraphy caught the light along one edge while the heavier side rested against the marble.
I watched his gaze move past me to Sophie, then to the board, then upward toward the archway.
The camera’s red light blinked above us.
On. Dark. On.
Each pulse gave the room a shape I could hold in my mind. Sophie’s white sleeve. The blood on her cheek. My navy dress beneath her. Preston’s red rose. The board’s gold letters. The small red point above the archway, recording or merely watching. I did not know which yet, but I knew it had been there when the strike happened.
Sophie shifted against me, and the ribbon slid sideways again. I tucked it gently beneath her hair and checked that she still had hold of me. Her hand found the seam at my waist and stayed there. I kept my body between her and Preston, though the distance did not feel like safety. It felt like a measured space that could disappear if he chose to cross it.
The ballroom remained frozen around us. No one stepped forward. No one reached for the board. No one touched Preston. The silence made every small movement distinct: the whisper of Sophie’s dress, the scrape of my knee against marble, the faint click of Preston’s shoe as he shifted his weight.
His face tightened when the red light blinked again.
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I looked down at Sophie’s ribbon and fixed the loosened fold beneath her chin. The smallest details mattered now. The position of the blood. The crease in the white fabric. The mark on the ribbon. The red rose against the black tuxedo. The oak board on the floor.
I held them all in place while Preston remained close enough to threaten us, and the camera continued to blink above the archway.
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