Diamond Fire (Hidden Legacy #3.5)- Ilona Andrews Page 0,8

in the floral designer’s eyes when we told her it had to be a carnation bouquet. Apparently, carnations weren’t upscale enough for Mad Rogan’s wedding. Poor woman kept trying to suggest orchids.

“And blue lilacs,” Nevada said.

“It will clash,” Arabella growled.

I googled sage bridesmaid dress, held the tablet toward Nevada, and scrolled through images. “Look at the flowers. Pink and white. Pink. Pink. White. Pink and white.”

“I don’t care,” Nevada said. “I want blue lilacs.”

And I want to fly away from here, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon, would it?

“Anyway, I have to get back to the office,” Nevada said. “Text me if anything.”

“The queen has dismissed us,” Arabella announced.

I dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

“I hate you guys.”

“We hate you back,” Arabella told her.

“We hated you before the wedding.”

“Before it was cool to hate you.”

“Get out!” Nevada growled.

I walked out of the room.

Arabella caught up with me. “We can’t do lilacs. It ruins the theme.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Sleep on it,” I told her. “Let’s go home.”

“Catalina,” a woman called.

I turned toward the sound. Arrosa Rogan, Nevada’s future mother-in-law waved at me from the doorway, from her wheelchair.

“May I speak to you in private, dear?”

Oh-oh. This couldn’t be good. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Arabella said.

Chapter 2

I followed Mrs. Rogan deeper into the room. The large office spread before me, walls and walls of bookshelves filled with books of every age, thickness, and color. Daylight spilled from the large arched windows on the right, and the polished floor of cream marble gleamed where sun rays touched it. Each window came with a reading bench equipped with turquoise cushions and ornate pillows. Mexican blankets, white, black, and lavender, were folded on each bench. Delicate Moroccan lanterns hung from the ornate ceiling that was painted with an intricate geometric pattern of pink, white, and blue.

It should’ve clashed, but instead it all melded into a perfect blend of Texas, Spain, and Morocco. There was something magical about it. Like opening a book of fairy tales and stepping through the pages into some fantasy castle. And Mrs. Rogan glided through it all with effortless elegance, a graceful queen of the palace. Even her wheelchair somehow fit.

I looked down on the floor. Of course, she fit here. She belonged here. It was her house. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that this house made me feel weird. Being here was like walking through an expensive furniture store or a museum filled with priceless antiques and being afraid to touch anything. It was someone else’s space and I just wanted to get out of it and go back to the familiar space of our warehouse.

“I would like to show you something.” A heavy leather-bound volume slid from the top shelf and floated to Mrs. Rogan’s hand. She opened it.

I came closer and stood on her left. On a thick page an old, yellowed photograph showed a man in a dark uniform and a beautiful woman in a black dress with a black veil, holding a bouquet of white flowers in her hand. A beautiful tiara secured the veil. In its center, under the highest peak, sat a stunning jewel shaped like a heart. It had to be the size of a walnut and it glittered even through the old worn paper.

“My great-grandmother at her wedding,” Mrs. Rogan said.

“Oh wow. But the dress is black.”

“Traditional Spanish wedding dresses are black.” Mrs. Rogan smiled. “Catholicism has this slightly morbid part to it. By wearing a black dress, Catholic women promise to love their husband until death.”

That was a little morbid. Who wants to think about death during a wedding?

“Black dresses for devotion and orange blossoms for fertility and happiness. The white wedding dresses didn’t come into fashion until British royals adopted it in the 19th century. Elite European families followed suit, but my great-grandmother was a holdout.”

Mrs. Rogan turned the page. Another beautiful bride, in a white dress this time, next to a groom in a black suit. The gown’s silk train was fanned out in front of them across the floor. The same tiara secured a beautiful veil.

“My grandmother.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Another turn of the page. A third bride in a white dress cinching her waist next to a man in a tuxedo, with a 1960’s hairstyle. The same crown holding back a veil that blew in the wind, but this time the photograph was in color and the blue green of the jewel took my breath away.

“My mother,” Mrs. Rogan said.

“She is also