Nothing but the most offensively vulgar gun possible would suitMr. Ville when it came to executing Mr. Davies.
Mr. Ville opened the case, gave the gun an unsettlingly horny smile and called out, “Let’s mount up boys, wouldn’t want to keep the bride waiting. Say,” he hit James on the upper arm in a friendly way that James found highly offensive, “don’t you think it would be romantic for me to take the bride out, too? Young lovers, slain by the same assassin. Nice, right?”
James nodded once, and started mentally punching up his resume.
Fiadh…
I was not too proud to admit I was up to 90, my nerves were that bad as the day went on and the wedding grew closer. It didn’t help that I was getting all of my information about the preparations second hand, as Sorcha and Meghan Emily ran up and down the stairs of the house relaying messages and running errands.
The whole floor had been handed over for bride stuff and for the mad techies, Terrence and Lucy to set up a command center. The only other men allowed up there were Charles and Grandad, who had stopped making his own nervous little visits to check on me once Sorcha’s impossibly elegant mother, the Lady Elspeth, had arrived leading what looked to be an army of haircare and make-up professionals.
He was quite taken with her, especially since Preet was working.
That she had brought her husband, Cormac Sr. was an unwelcome surprise to Alec, which infuriated me since there was fuck all I could do about it, stuck upstairs playing dress up. Apparently the man was wise enough to stay near the bar that had been set up next to the outdoor dance floor that covered what had until the day before been a patch of dirt that had been a dovecote years before until a freak storm took itand the doves out.
I had chosen the simplest dress I could find in the masses of fabric that had been deposited in my life. Ivory silk, a-line, ankle length so I could run in it, with straps instead of sleeves and a v-neck and a slightly low back.
I stood before the old oval full-length mirror that had been my Grandma’s and turned. It didn’t look half bad, and I planned toget it dyed black and shortened for later wear.
“Er, you can see all of your tattoos in that rig, Fee,” Sorcha had said. “Ma will be havin’ kittens.”
“I paid good money for these, and the artists who created them are some of the finest in the world. What better jewelry could I have?”
“But one of them is a snake,” she said, pointing to where my favorite tattoo coiled about my upper arm.
“A poor, badly endangered fella, he is. And I think he’s pretty,” I added, stroking where the snake’s head rested on my shoulder.
“Kittens, she’ll be havin’ kittens,” she muttered, wandering out of the room to get dressed herself. “Litters of them.”
There had been a massive ta-do about the shoes as well, but eventually Sorcha and the stylist, Georgia, that had been sent to help get me ready agreed that in this one case a flat-heel made logistical sense. I wondered if the cream leather would take a dye as well, as they were more comfortable than I could have hoped.
Georgia then started opening a large number of cases. Makeup that cost more than some folks spent on a week of dinners, in a massive range of colors with idiot names like “ink whisper” and “doll dream” and “gear shift.”
Haircare products from Korea and Paris, along with custom-made brushes and combs and picks and the like.
She turned to me with a stern expression that said, “I’ve sorted out worse than you before.”
No, she hadn’t.
“Illamasqua Beyond Foundation LG1. MAC Relentlessly Red lipstick. Black eyeliner and mascara, your choice,nosmoky eye. And if you touch my hair you’ll have to learn to apply primer with your toes.”
Her gulp was heard in heaven.
After she left, having done a fine job despite a bit of shaking, I sat on the trunk at the end of my bed fiddling with my bouquet.Half yellow Irish primroses, half Scottish purple ones. It was pretty and thoughtful.
Alec had picked it out, because I’d forgotten to say what I wanted for them. I took one of each and pressed them in my retrieved copy ofThe Monkey Wrench Gang.
Looking out the window at where the last guests were being seated, I had to admit the farm looked fine. Armsful of indigenous flowers and vines decorated everything, long swags of them forming the border of the dance floor, and an arch of them stood where the priest would be soon.
Rather than the usual white folding chairs that caterers used, seats of woven willow stood in rows, and the tables for the meal that no one would get to eat were decorated with living plants and pillars of soy candles in hurricane lamps.
Despite my threats, the groom and his men - Alastair, a flustered Charles, and an older man whose only name seemed to be Jones - Grandad and Da were dressed in designer, black tie tuxes, as were the MacTavishi, the whole, entire fuck tonne of them.Honestly, with the size of the attending fellas there was probably a serge wool shortage in Europe.
Everyone was dressed gorgeously, getting their nice shoes dirty and not seeming to mind, having a glass or two of pre-wedding champagne, or ginger ale in champagne glassesif they would be shooting later, whilst the band played a soft version of “Galway Girl.”
And it didn’t rain a drop.
For a moment I wondered if I should have invited Ma after all, but enough people I loved were in danger today as it was. And I did love her. Liking was a different thing entirely. Anyway, having her there would have been a step too close to a real wedding, which was a thing I’d never seriously considered.
