She had given her consent. Was it done, then? She didn’t feel different. She was still the same old Lucy, except she was standing in front of more people than she ever cared to stand in front of again, and her brother was giving her away.
The priest placed her right hand in Haselby’s, and he pledged his troth, his voice loud, firm, and clear.
They separated, and then Lucy took his hand.
I, Lucinda Margaret Catherine . . .
“I, Lucinda Margaret Catherine . . .”
. . . take thee, Arthur Fitzwilliam George . . .
“. . . take thee, Arthur Fitzwilliam George . . .”
She said it. She repeated after the priest, word for word. She said her part, right up until she meant to give Haselby her troth, right up until—
The doors to the chapel slammed open.
She turned around. Everyone turned around.
Gregory.
Dear God.
He looked like a madman, breathing so hard he was barely able to speak.
He staggered forward, clutching the edges of the pew for support, and she heard him say—
“Don’t.”
Lucy’s heart stopped.
“Don’t do it.”
Her bouquet slipped from her hands. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stand there like a statue as he walked toward her, seemingly oblivious to the hundreds of people staring at him.
“Don’t do it,” he said again.
And no one was talking. Why was no one talking? Surely someone would rush forward, grab Gregory by the arms, haul him away—
But no one did. It was a spectacle. It was theater, and it seemed no one wanted to miss the ending.
And then—
Right there.
Right there in front of everyone, he stopped.
He stopped. And he said, “I love you.”
Beside her Hermione murmured, “Oh my goodness.”
Lucy wanted to cry.
“I love you,” he said again, and he just kept walking, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Don’t do it,” he said, finally reaching the front of the church. “Don’t marry him.”
“Gregory,” she whispered, “why are you doing this?”