Inever thought I’d be getting married in Westminster Abbey. It’s where kings are crowned, where queens are laid to rest. It is a place for royalty, not for me.
I mean, I’m hardly working class, I went to Harrow for flip’s sake. With boys who had posh titles. I’ve met royalty from all over the world, but Dad isn’t a lord or duke, let alone royalty.
Wait, oh gosh. I’m marrying a prince. Does that mean I’m about to become royalty? I have no idea. It is probably something I should have asked. Even though I have been keeping my nose out of everything. Everything being my own wedding.
I wonder how much say Prince Dyfri has had? Has he simply been measured for clothes and given words to memorise, like me? Or did he get to make any decisions?
Okay, time to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. The sun is barely up, and the wedding ceremony does not begin until sunset. It is pointless to start spiralling now. And really there is nothing to spiral about. I have to be dressed, get in a car, walk through a church. Then stand there, say some words. Do some ceremony stuff. And then go to a banquet.
Nothing at all to get alarmed about.
I can do this.
The ceremony stuff. Right. That’s the bit I’m most nervous about, if I’m being honest. Not the walking or the standing or even the words, I’ve got those memorised backwards at this point. It’s the hair thing.
They’ve had me practising on a bloody mannequin for weeks. A mannequin with long black hair that I’ve plaited so many times the synthetic strands are starting to fray. My fingers know the movements by heart now, but what if I mess it up when it matters? What if my hands shake? What if I drop a section or make it too tight or too loose?
The fey woman who as far as I can tell is the equivalent of a wedding coordinator, a terrifyingly elegant woman with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice, made it very clear that this particular bit of the ceremony is ‘of the utmost importance.’ She didn’t explain why, just kept making me do it over and over until I could manage it with my eyes closed.
Which, thinking about it now, seems like a strange thing to focus on. But then again, everything about this wedding is strange. Half the ceremony is going to be in English, half in what I assume is Fey. There’s no exchanging of rings, no kissing, and apparently at some point we’re both supposed to drink from a goblet that’s been blessed by something called a “grove-keeper.”
I’ve stopped asking questions. Every time I do, I get answers that just confuse me more.
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral into wedding anxiety. “Come in,” I call, grateful for the distraction.
It’s Dad’s aide, looking harried. “The fey will be here in twenty minutes to begin the preparations. Are you ready?”
Am I ready? That’s the question, isn’t it?
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, which seems to be my standard response to everything these days.
Westminster Abbey has never looked like this before. I’m fairly certain of that.
The ancient stones are draped with garlands of winter flowers. White roses, holly, and something that glows faintly silver in the candlelight. The scent of pine and something else, something otherworldly and sweet, fills the air. Half the congregation is human, dressed in their finest formal wear. The other half...
Well, the other half look like they’ve stepped out of a fantasy film. Flowing robes in jewel tones, elaborate hairstyles wound with precious metals, and a few sets of horns and antlers catching the light. It’s beautiful and terrifying and completely surreal.
I’m standing at the altar trying not to fidget with my ceremonial sword, apparently I need one of those now, when the music begins. It’s not the wedding march. It’s something haunting and ethereal that seems to come from the stones themselves rather than any visible musicians.
And then I see him.
Prince Dyfri appears at the far end of the aisle, and every rational thought I’ve ever had abandons me completely.
He’s wearing white, but it’s nothing like any wedding dress I’ve ever seen. Layers upon layers of flowing silk that seem to move with a life of their own, cut in a style that’s undeniably masculine yet somehow bridal. The fabric shimmers as he moves, catching the candlelight andthrowing it back in subtle patterns. His dark hair falls loose to his waist, unbound and gleaming.
He looks like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how you feel about otherworldly beauty that makes your chest tight and your palms sweat.
As he glides down the aisle, because there’s no other word for the way he moves, I catch glimpses of his face. Serene. Composed. Beautiful enough to stop traffic and probably cause several car accidents.
But there’s something else there, something I can only see because I’m looking for it. A tension around his eyes. A tightness to his jaw. He looks like a man walking to his execution rather than his wedding.
Which, let’s be fair, might be exactly how he sees it.
When he reaches me, we stand facing each other while the Archbishop of Canterbury begins the ceremony in English. Something about gathered witnesses and holy matrimony and the joining of two peoples. Standard wedding fare, really, just with the added weight of international diplomacy. Well, actually it’s interdimensional diplomacy.
The fey officiant steps forward. A tall, ethereal being with hair that branches down like a willow tree. And they begin speaking in what I assume is Fey. The language flows like music, all liquid consonants and vowels that seem to resonate in my chest.
Dyfri responds in the same language, his voice clear and steady. Whatever he’s saying, it sounds like vows. Important ones, judging by the way the fey in the congregation lean forward slightly.
