Galathea woke standing upright.
There was no fading in, no slow crawl of consciousness, no transition. One heartbeat she was standing near the foot of the altar, the lace of her veil catching on her cheek, the diamond on her left hand heavy against her knuckle as the atmosphere prepared to split wide open.
The next heartbeat brought nothing.
No birds. No wind. No pulse in the room except the uneven, jagged thump of her own heart hammering against her ribs.
Galathea stared blindly into the stillness, her breathing shallow. She raised a trembling hand, her fingers searching instantly for the band on her ring finger. Cold white gold met her touch. The stone remained set.
She looked down at herself. The white silk of her wedding dress hung flawless around her hips. Barely a wrinkle marred the crisp hem. The delicate tulle of her veil draped over her shoulders like suspended mist.
