er that rode up her arm. Mrs. Holloway's hold on her arm relaxed not

owled, her eyes scanning towards the dress

ervously. "It's

rist. "That's what they all s

tals, murder scenes, rat tunnels where the air was thick with dust and death. But this was different. The Veil of Sorrow wa

I understand. The story is spooky. B

a smile. "Facts? Fine. Here's one: twelve brides have worn the dr

ned it to a blank page. "Twelve vic

better than that." She turned and disappeared

closed in

e stitching on the dress. The lace designs resembled curled vines, but the more she gazed,

riphery of the ro

his

lmost s

toward the noise, her pulse beat

rep

ing was get

n't move on the mannequin, but its veil-delicate and f

nd that made he

la

minine.

heart pounding in her ea

ack to the dress agai

no longer d

mannequin's face, as if someo

and the next moment, Mrs. Holloway emerged from ther