“It’s your wedding dress!” Mrs. Montague says, draping it across her arms and holding it out to me. “It’s the same one I wore when I was seventeen years old.” She sighs and looks up at the ceiling, like she’s already caught up in a vivid daydream of David Montague as a young man. “It’s bad luck for a groom to see the dress before the wedding,” Church says, looking slightly paler than usual.
