C: Tell your husband that you hope there will be no lamb at the feast

“I hope there will be no lamb at the feast.”

Your voice comes out with a strength you didn’t know it possessed. Your parents cringe, holding each other’s hands. They don’t weep, their weeping was done weeks ago when your husband demanded a bride in a low, creaking voice. That same voice chuckles, the mantle of feathers fluffing up around the mask.

“No. No lamb.”

He takes some steps closer to you, half hobbling with sharp, clicking talons against stone. You can’t see his hands, they’re somewhere beneath the feather mantle. You know they exist.

The mask tilts to the side, regarding her with one eye, “Boar. Fish. A great keg or two. Enough for both families.”

“No birds?” You can’t keep the words from your mouth. There’s no fear left in you, it’s been stripped away with the last remains of your agency. You’re not Mari anymore. You’re a monster’s bride.

The laughter bubbles up from behind the mask again, the feather’s fluffing out to an almost alarming degree. It starts low, human like then breaks, creaking and croaking out. A chorus of returned cries fill the square. Birds of all sizes and colours line the roofs of the surrounding buildings. The other half of the wedding party.

You think your parents might flee, their eyes are wide and their pupils are pinpricks in panicking white. You can feel cold sweat crawling down your spine. Thin, elegant fingers plated with dark rough scales shift out soundlessly from the feather mantle and smooth down his feathers as he quiets down.

“You will be a good wife.” He asserts and reaches his hand out for yours, half turning to lead you into the long hall where the wedding feast is prepared.

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