The garden chapel was too exposed. The main chapel, not much better. It was all decked out like a gaudy renaissance castle complete with fog machine and guards flanking the fake royal officiant. I wound deeper into the complex and checked doors. The second door I tried was a large storage room or grandiose closet filled with costumes of every shape, size, and color. Score. I wouldn’t even have to talk to anyone.
I searched through the racks. Tuxedos, suits, costumes… I had my pick of the lot. I chose black in case the bandage I’d put on leaked. Rolling across asphalt hadn’t helped any. I tightened the bandages and slipped on a fresh pair of pants and shirt. There was a matching cape with red lining on the hanger. With it, hung a cheesy, white half-mask. I wouldn’t need that, but took it anyway so I could slip through the hallways undetected.
The door opened, and I slid behind the racks, hiding from the trio of actors who’d just wrapped up the royal wedding.
“That’s almost the last show of the night.” One of the royal guards said.
“Thank goodness. My feet are killing me,” said a woman who slipped out of a maiden’s costume and immediately into a white gown with elaborate flowers sewn across the bodice and skirt. The officiate rummaged through the racks.
The second guard popped his head in the room. “Hey, has anyone seen the next bride? We’ve got the groom waiting, and the feed goes live in ten minutes.”
The officiate answered him. “She texted that she’s running late. Ride share issues.”
Whoops. That was on me.
He searched the rack I was hiding behind. I stayed excruciatingly still so he wouldn’t see me.
“Has anyone seen my phantom costume?”
I glanced at the white mask peeking out from under the heavy cape in my hand.
“There’s one over here.”
“I could have sworn I hung mine by the door. Oh, well. If the bride doesn’t show, I won’t need it. Can you help me with my wig?”
Two of the actors moved to the makeup area and the smell of solvent permeated the air. The door opened again. “The bride’s here. She’s meeting with the event organizer. It might not happen, folks.”
“Oh, thank the Gods. Valentine’s Day and the night before it are the fucking worst.” Guard one dropped his outfit on a stool, abandoning his costume change.
“It pays the bills,” the woman commented as she pulled the wig off the king’s head and rubbed at a stray patch of glue.
“Fuck staying. Tomorrow is going to be a killer. It will be fifteen hours of wedding insanity. I’m out.”
“Me too. Good luck with the Bridezilla.”
The two guards who’d spoken changed into street clothes. The woman and the officiate stayed behind, still working on the glue residue left behind by his elaborate wig.
I took a chance and slipped out of the area before someone else trapped me here.
Outside the room, I donned the opera mask and cape, pulling the stiff collar up to conceal the unmasked side of my face.
“Jerry! Room three. I need you.”
A woman stood in the hallway, holding the door open and frantically motioning inside. Reluctantly, I followed directions and went inside.
“Thanks! I’ll be right back; I’ve got to go collect the groom. She wants a refund. See if you can fix this, okay?” The door shut behind me before I could protest.
I turned around to see who “Jerry” was supposed to talk to. It was her. The twin to the bride, and the ride share requestor I’d almost flattened before I stole her ride.
“You.”
Her voice dripped acid.
“I’m… sorry?”
“Oh, you’re not sorry yet.” She stood up, her hands fisted.
“I can explain.”
