The last thing Arthur expected was to be here. It had been a few of years since the gang had fallen apart. The Pinkertons seemed to have calmed down in their search for its members, who had scattered across America in search of a quiet life, so Arthur had grown bold and asked you to marry him. Not just before God. But to make it all official, to get a paper confirming that your hand was now occupied by him.

No matter how much he told himself in the past that he was a bastard that few would want to marry, he was still here. A bridal salon, somewhere in Saint Denis, seemed almost surreal. And it almost killed him to think that only Abigail and the fitting room curtain stood between him and seeing you in your attire.

"Oh, come on, Abigail. I'll just take a peek." - a brazen lie escaped his lips. If he saw you, he would definitely stare until you were uncomfortable.

"Seeing the future spouse in their clothes before the wedding is bad luck!" Abigail countered, pretending to be the strictest woman on the planet.

"I don't remember a single luck in my life, is it really going to change anything from one look from me?" - he made another attempt, looking over her shoulder, chuckling cheerfully, not listening to the lady so much as listening to your giggles from behind the curtain. - "I need to know what I'm marrying."

He doesn't know what he did to deserve this. But he is one hundred percent sure of one thing - this is probably the best week of his life. Arthur can't wait to put a ring on your finger and officially declare you his spouse, to pick you up in wedding style and carry you off into the arms of married life.