Ella. Most of all, Ella.
If things had gone differently, her friend might have come to know Peter well enough to see past themisconceptions born of horrific experiences with wizards. Perhaps Ella would have even liked him.
Either way, if Ella hadn’t snapped, she wouldn’t have set off the weapon, Beatrix wouldn’t have relocated it to the desert and Peter’s best friend wouldn’t have died. Martinelli would have stood up with Peter at the wedding, she felt sure of that. As it was, Peter would have no one there at all—no family or close friends.
But … if Ella hadn’t snapped, the Vows would still be in place. She, Beatrix, would be sitting in prison—assuming Garrett didn’t do what the police suspected he was planning and get her to marry him while under the influence of ayayak root. She and Peter most certainly would not be standing here, now, on the verge of getting married themselves.
It was unnerving, thinking of it that way. She didn’t want to feel that her happiness was made possible by death and near-destruction.
Peter dipped his head to hers. “Don’t think of that.” As she looked at him in surprise, he added, “Whatever it is you’re thinking about that put that stricken expression on your face, I mean. Unless it’s a problem we have the power to change.”
“No,” she murmured.
“I think of those things, too—all the time. But not today. Today, I refuse.”
He flashed his self-deprecating quirk of a smile at her. Impossible not to respond in kind.
“Next!”
They moved up to the counter, filled out the application—her pulse quickening as she signed it—and handed it over. The clerk glanced at the paperwork, showed no sign of recognizing the significance and told them where to wait for the license.
No one gave them a second look as they cooled their heels. Then a different clerk called out, “Blackwell!” And their glorious anonymity abruptly ended.
“Blackwell?” several people murmured as she and Peter hustled to the counter to grab their license. Then: “I think itis!”Just like that, every person in the room was staring at them—some with curiosity, some with disgust. She heard “that awful woman” and “Roger Rydell says” as they rushed out the door?—
—straight into Roger Rydell.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled as his photographer set off the camera with a flash and a pop. “Romeo and Juliet, marriage license in hand.”
She was too appalled for any immediate reaction beyond gaping at him. As Peter snatched his hat off the floor, where it had been knocked in the collision, Rydell added, “When’s the wedding?”
“Whenever it is, it will be private,” Peter said coldly.
Rydell smirked. “Are you hoping a quick marriage will distract from all this Garrett ugliness? Or from the fact that one of you is too fond of the other’s sister?”
She found her voice: “Trying hard tonotcall attention to something makes for a pretty poor distraction, wouldn’t you say?”
“Look,” Peter said, “I’m not in love with anyone but Beatrix, who has never toyed with anyone’s affections. If you’re looking for dirt and drama, why don’t you focus on Washington’s effort to kill the typic-rights bills?”
Rydell’s smile sharpened. “If I had a dollar for every time my subjects said, ‘Why don’t you write about someone other than me,’ I’d be a rich man.”
“You can’t expect him to take on the magiocracy,” she said to Peter in a fit of pique. “He only goes after people less powerful than he is. It’s so much more comfortable that way.”
But Rydell got in the last word as they stalked off. “You’re not keeping your wedding from my readers! I have eyes everywhere!”
They laughed it off, once their initial outrage and frustration faded. He didn’t have eyeseverywhere. They’d told no one besides the few they could absolutely trust, and how likely was it that Rydell would expect they’d marry that very night—six-thirty on a Monday?
At six-fifteen, they walked into church, poked their heads into Pastor Hattington’s office to let him know they’d be ready soon, and literally raced each other to the sanctuary.
“Victory,” she cried, getting her hand on the side door an instant before he did.
“Iwasin a coma very recently,” he said. “I should have had a two-second head start.”
“I’m wearing a corset. That’s far worse.”
His grin so effortlessly communicated what he was thinking—you won’t be wearing it much longer tonight—that she felt instantly warm all over.
They turned at the sound of footsteps and saw Lydia and Rosemarie coming around the corner, a vase full of white lilies in Rosemarie’s arms.
