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The Lord of Death Makes a Fine Husband
On my death bed, I received a marriage proposal.
No one wanted a plague-ridden girl for a bride.
Or that was what my father told me the last time he saw me, right before he locked me inside the room that was supposed to become my tomb. He told me it was for the best: my younger sisters would have better chances of finding their husbands if I was out of the way. They’d make advantageous matches that would make my father richer than he had been with a headstrong eldest daughter who wouldn’t be courted.
Maybe I was too stern, thinking no man could be worthy of my sisters or me. If I had my way, we would have gone to the countryside, never to return, before we got involved in the city politics and their unfair biases.
But Father moved us into his older sister’s estate. Before the sickness swept through the city, we were attending balls once or twice a week just to let our faces be known to all the people who mattered. Lilian and Dahlia thought I was such a bore that I didn’t try harder to make a match. After all, if I didn’t wed, then they would have to wait their turns for their own engagements.
Only once did a gentleman catch my eye. It was during a masquerade ball at Lady Justina’s home, and my fox-like mask made it so hard to breathe. When I…
