Credence doesn't cry on her wedding day because this, she has been assured, is the best of all possible outcomes for her. She has not been sentenced to death. No one is going to study her; no one is going to cut pieces out of her until there is nothing left to cut. She isn't even going to jail. She's only going to be looked after. She will be let out of the little room where she has lived during the Senate committee hearings (still a bigger room than she had in the church, and she has it all to herself) and brought out into the wider world. But there are conditions.
"It's a very old form of magic," Miss Goldstein explains to her. "It used to be part of wedding vows, in some parts of the wizarding world, but it hasn't been common in a couple of centuries." Miss Goldstein is so kind, so gentle, and trying so hard not to let Credence know how angry she is. Credence wants to tell her that it's alright -- that she knows Miss Goldstein isn't angry with her. But those aren't the words that seem most important to say.
"I'm going to be married?" Credence says instead.
"It doesn't have to be a legal marriage," Miss Goldstein says. Credence hears herself make a small, horrified sound and tries to smother it under her hands. "It can just be the spell, and that's it."
"I don't want to be some kind of --" (fallen woman, gutter trash, devil's whore) "-- burden to anyone."
"Oh, Credence," Miss Goldstein says. She sounds very tired and very sad. "You won't be, I promise."
"Please," Credence says. "I want it to be legitimate."
Miss Goldstein sighs. "I'll talk to him about it. We're supposed to do the spell later today, but if this is how you want to do it, I'm sure we can make it work." She reaches over and takes one of Credence's hands. "If you're sure." Credence nods.
Miss Goldstein goes away and comes back with a wedding dress and another woman, who she introduces as her sister. The dress is old-fashioned, and Miss Goldstein's sister ('call me Queenie, I'm not anyone official') offers to remake it in a more modern style. Credence refuses. She likes that the dress has a high neck, long sleeves, a skirt that hangs to the floor. Miss Queenie has to extend it a little (Credence has always been too tall for a girl) and take it in a little (Credence has always been too thin in general). She pins Credence's hair back as best she can, but her hair has never been tame or obedient.
"I know you're worried," Miss Queenie says. "You know it's not going to hurt, right? It's a safe spell. Safe as houses." It wouldn't be so bad if it did hurt, Credence thinks; she knows how to smother the pain and keep moving. It's not the spell she's worried about. Miss Queenie looks at Credence sympathetically, and then pleadingly over at her sister.
"You really don't have to get married," Miss Goldstein says, frowning. "I want to be clear about that. The spell will work without it."
"If this is part of marriage for witches, and I'm going to be a witch, then I should be married," Credence says. It's the only thing she feels sure of.
She feels less sure as they lead her through the halls. It's evening and the building is mostly empty, but the few people left stop to stare. Credence is veiled, but they're magic. They must know that she's the Obscurial (the freak) who killed two people and nearly exposed them to the world. She ducks her head and clasps her hands and hopes her husband will take pity on her and hide her away from his world instead of making her join it. Magic was all she wanted, when it was her way out, but now -- now it only seems a different kind of prison. A trap more readily made to hold her.
"We're your witnesses," Miss Queenie says. "Usually there'd be a witness from the groom's side, but he didn't have time to get anyone here." He's ashamed of her already, Credence thinks, and who wouldn't be? Miss Queenie says, "oh, honey, no" but Credence doesn't need the reassurance because she's grateful either way.
She is less grateful when she sees her husband-to-be.
Credence knows, of course, that this isn't the man who tricked her, who used her. She has seen him at the committee hearings. (And that also means he isn't the man who cradled her face so gently, who healed her hands so tenderly, who offered her the only kindness she had known in so long.) His face is familiar but he is not, and that makes her afraid. Still, she steps into the circle drawn on the floor. Old-fashioned magic, Miss Goldstein had said. It looks more like the drawings in her ma's pamphlets than anything else she has seen so far. Arcane symbols, candles, the sweet-sharp-bitter smell of burning herbs.
The president is there, too, just outside the circle. The officiant, Credence realizes, dressed in her robes of office. Not a minister. It's hardly the strangest thing in recent memory. Stranger, perhaps, for the fact that Madam Picquery had almost had her killed, but Credence can forgive that act of violence. Credence has all but been forgiven for greater crimes herself.
Credence joins hands with Mr. Graves. There is a great deal of talk in what might be Latin, but she doesn't know what any of it means. Ma never went in for Catholic nonsense. Madam Picquery prompts Credence when to say yes, which she is allowed to do in English. When it's all over, Mr. Graves lets go of her hands. He doesn't lift her veil. He doesn't kiss her. Madam Picquery wishes her well with all due solemnity, and Miss Queenie hugs her. Miss Goldstein does, too.
"If you need anything, let me know," she says. Credence nods. Then Mr. Graves puts his hand on her shoulder. His first sentence speaking as a husband to his wife lacks some of the tenderness that one might hope for.
"We should go to my office," he says. Maybe, Credence thinks, he wants to kiss her for the first time in private. Maybe he means to have her there, if she's not worthy of the marriage-bed --
"If you do any of the things she's thinking about, there'll be hell to pay," Miss Queenie says. Credence is mortified, which Miss Queenie must also know.
"The only thing I intend to do with Miss Barebone tonight is paperwork," Mr. Graves says.
"Mrs. Graves," Miss Goldstein corrects him. "You'll be doing paperwork with Mrs. Graves."
"So I will," Mr. Graves says. He takes his hand off Credence's shoulder and starts for the door without a glance back. She follows. The halls now are emptier still. And his office is quiet, quiet, quiet when he shuts the door behind them. She stands in the middle of the room and tries not to touch anything.
"You can take that off, you know," Mr. Graves says. Credence's heart flutters, but she no longer feels like something is trying to claw its way from between her ribs. Her fear is -- smaller. No less present, but less of a presence.
"My dress?" she says, and her voice is very small.
"Your veil," Mr. Graves says a little sharply. "There are no prying eyes here, Credence."
His voice sounds the same, saying her name.
She draws the veil back. She expects him to look at her appraisingly, to decide whether he thinks she'll be worth the trouble, but he doesn't. Perhaps he has already decided, one way or the other.
True to his word, he beckons her over to the chair behind his desk. She sits. He stands beside her, signing document after document and indicating where she should do the same. Maiden name; married name. Credence Graves is a portentous name. She has trouble with the quill pen he gives her at first, so he offers her a plain cartridge pen, which she accepts with some embarrassment. She should be able to adjust to such a simple and un-magical change. Sometime around the tenth form, when her new name has ceased to look like anything but a collection of letters, she gathers the courage for a question.
"May I call you Percival?" she says. He looks over at her, surprised.
"Of course. I hope I haven't overstepped in calling you Credence."
"No," Credence says, looking back down at the paper in front of her. "Not at all."
"You're going to have to live with me," Percival says. "There's no way around it." He suddenly sounds exhausted.
"Of course," Credence says. "I'm your wife."
"You are indeed," he says. "Not exactly what I thought I'd be signing up for, I admit, but here we are." Credence is seized with fear so suddenly she almost chokes on it. He didn't want this, he doesn't want her, but she's his to do with as he likes.
"Please," she says, horror-struck. "Don't cast me aside." She clenches her hands into fists and squeezes her eyes shut. She is a bubble about to burst.
"Credence," he says in slow, careful tones. "I need you to calm down for me. Take a deep breath."
fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence)
"It's a very old form of magic," Miss Goldstein explains to her. "It used to be part of wedding vows, in some parts of the wizarding world, but it hasn't been common in a couple of centuries." Miss Goldstein is so kind, so gentle, and trying so hard not to let Credence know how angry she is. Credence wants to tell her that it's alright -- that she knows Miss Goldstein isn't angry with her. But those aren't the words that seem most important to say.
"I'm going to be married?" Credence says instead.
"It doesn't have to be a legal marriage," Miss Goldstein says. Credence hears herself make a small, horrified sound and tries to smother it under her hands. "It can just be the spell, and that's it."
"I don't want to be some kind of --" (fallen woman, gutter trash, devil's whore) "-- burden to anyone."
"Oh, Credence," Miss Goldstein says. She sounds very tired and very sad. "You won't be, I promise."
"Please," Credence says. "I want it to be legitimate."
Miss Goldstein sighs. "I'll talk to him about it. We're supposed to do the spell later today, but if this is how you want to do it, I'm sure we can make it work." She reaches over and takes one of Credence's hands. "If you're sure." Credence nods.
Miss Goldstein goes away and comes back with a wedding dress and another woman, who she introduces as her sister. The dress is old-fashioned, and Miss Goldstein's sister ('call me Queenie, I'm not anyone official') offers to remake it in a more modern style. Credence refuses. She likes that the dress has a high neck, long sleeves, a skirt that hangs to the floor. Miss Queenie has to extend it a little (Credence has always been too tall for a girl) and take it in a little (Credence has always been too thin in general). She pins Credence's hair back as best she can, but her hair has never been tame or obedient.
"I know you're worried," Miss Queenie says. "You know it's not going to hurt, right? It's a safe spell. Safe as houses." It wouldn't be so bad if it did hurt, Credence thinks; she knows how to smother the pain and keep moving. It's not the spell she's worried about. Miss Queenie looks at Credence sympathetically, and then pleadingly over at her sister.
"You really don't have to get married," Miss Goldstein says, frowning. "I want to be clear about that. The spell will work without it."
"If this is part of marriage for witches, and I'm going to be a witch, then I should be married," Credence says. It's the only thing she feels sure of.
She feels less sure as they lead her through the halls. It's evening and the building is mostly empty, but the few people left stop to stare. Credence is veiled, but they're magic. They must know that she's the Obscurial (the freak) who killed two people and nearly exposed them to the world. She ducks her head and clasps her hands and hopes her husband will take pity on her and hide her away from his world instead of making her join it. Magic was all she wanted, when it was her way out, but now -- now it only seems a different kind of prison. A trap more readily made to hold her.
"We're your witnesses," Miss Queenie says. "Usually there'd be a witness from the groom's side, but he didn't have time to get anyone here." He's ashamed of her already, Credence thinks, and who wouldn't be? Miss Queenie says, "oh, honey, no" but Credence doesn't need the reassurance because she's grateful either way.
She is less grateful when she sees her husband-to-be.
Credence knows, of course, that this isn't the man who tricked her, who used her. She has seen him at the committee hearings. (And that also means he isn't the man who cradled her face so gently, who healed her hands so tenderly, who offered her the only kindness she had known in so long.) His face is familiar but he is not, and that makes her afraid. Still, she steps into the circle drawn on the floor. Old-fashioned magic, Miss Goldstein had said. It looks more like the drawings in her ma's pamphlets than anything else she has seen so far. Arcane symbols, candles, the sweet-sharp-bitter smell of burning herbs.
The president is there, too, just outside the circle. The officiant, Credence realizes, dressed in her robes of office. Not a minister. It's hardly the strangest thing in recent memory. Stranger, perhaps, for the fact that Madam Picquery had almost had her killed, but Credence can forgive that act of violence. Credence has all but been forgiven for greater crimes herself.
Credence joins hands with Mr. Graves. There is a great deal of talk in what might be Latin, but she doesn't know what any of it means. Ma never went in for Catholic nonsense. Madam Picquery prompts Credence when to say yes, which she is allowed to do in English. When it's all over, Mr. Graves lets go of her hands. He doesn't lift her veil. He doesn't kiss her. Madam Picquery wishes her well with all due solemnity, and Miss Queenie hugs her. Miss Goldstein does, too.
"If you need anything, let me know," she says. Credence nods. Then Mr. Graves puts his hand on her shoulder. His first sentence speaking as a husband to his wife lacks some of the tenderness that one might hope for.
"We should go to my office," he says. Maybe, Credence thinks, he wants to kiss her for the first time in private. Maybe he means to have her there, if she's not worthy of the marriage-bed --
"If you do any of the things she's thinking about, there'll be hell to pay," Miss Queenie says. Credence is mortified, which Miss Queenie must also know.
"The only thing I intend to do with Miss Barebone tonight is paperwork," Mr. Graves says.
"Mrs. Graves," Miss Goldstein corrects him. "You'll be doing paperwork with Mrs. Graves."
"So I will," Mr. Graves says. He takes his hand off Credence's shoulder and starts for the door without a glance back. She follows. The halls now are emptier still. And his office is quiet, quiet, quiet when he shuts the door behind them. She stands in the middle of the room and tries not to touch anything.
"You can take that off, you know," Mr. Graves says. Credence's heart flutters, but she no longer feels like something is trying to claw its way from between her ribs. Her fear is -- smaller. No less present, but less of a presence.
"My dress?" she says, and her voice is very small.
"Your veil," Mr. Graves says a little sharply. "There are no prying eyes here, Credence."
His voice sounds the same, saying her name.
She draws the veil back. She expects him to look at her appraisingly, to decide whether he thinks she'll be worth the trouble, but he doesn't. Perhaps he has already decided, one way or the other.
True to his word, he beckons her over to the chair behind his desk. She sits. He stands beside her, signing document after document and indicating where she should do the same. Maiden name; married name. Credence Graves is a portentous name. She has trouble with the quill pen he gives her at first, so he offers her a plain cartridge pen, which she accepts with some embarrassment. She should be able to adjust to such a simple and un-magical change. Sometime around the tenth form, when her new name has ceased to look like anything but a collection of letters, she gathers the courage for a question.
"May I call you Percival?" she says. He looks over at her, surprised.
"Of course. I hope I haven't overstepped in calling you Credence."
"No," Credence says, looking back down at the paper in front of her. "Not at all."
"You're going to have to live with me," Percival says. "There's no way around it." He suddenly sounds exhausted.
"Of course," Credence says. "I'm your wife."
"You are indeed," he says. "Not exactly what I thought I'd be signing up for, I admit, but here we are." Credence is seized with fear so suddenly she almost chokes on it. He didn't want this, he doesn't want her, but she's his to do with as he likes.
"Please," she says, horror-struck. "Don't cast me aside." She clenches her hands into fists and squeezes her eyes shut. She is a bubble about to burst.
"Credence," he says in slow, careful tones. "I need you to calm down for me. Take a deep breath."