Lily’s hands hovered over it, unsure. “What is this?”
Her father’s voice came flat and final. “Tomorrow you’re getting married.”
For a second, Lily didn’t understand the words as language. They sounded like something from a stranger’s life—like he’d walked into the wrong room and announced it to the wrong daughter.
Then her stomach dropped.
“Married?” she repeated, her voice going thin. “To who?”
He didn’t pause. “A man who sits outside Saint Mary’s asking for change.”
Lily’s throat tightened. “A beggar?”
“He’s got nothing,” her father said, as if this was math. “You’ve got nothing to offer either. It balances out.”
The words hit her like a slap, even though he never raised a hand. Her face warmed, not from embarrassment—she’d been embarrassed enough times to know the difference—but from something angrier, hotter.
“I’m your daughter,” she said.
