“I saidhe-llo! Now you’re supposed to say it back,” Mandy tries again.
Enjoying her determination, I light my bedside candle with a butane candle lighter.
“I’m a photographer,” says Jurgis, predictably. Then, pointing at Gustavo: “He is avideographer.”
As the room lights up, Dark Dave screeches in obvious pain.
I grin at my friends and vendors. With a spike of disturbing optimism, I slither-tumble off my high bed and shut the door.
“What time is it, Mandy?”
“About seven,” she chirps back.
“All right. Let’s get going, people and pixies and heads. Mandy, destroy the evidence of our nefarious plans. Everyone else, grab your glow sticks. Are we ready to find Hanry and kick off our heist party?”
Jurgis and Gustavo, overnight BFFs, obediently click on their glowing bracelets while eyeing the newest vendors with mild suspicion. Jurgis lifts his camera. “Photography?”
“Not yet. For now, go where Bulan’s crows tell you. Follow their instructions. They are your gods now.”
“Caw,” says a bird atop the desk.
Mandy laces her fingers together and grimaces. “Sabby, don’t you need to get ready?”
That pours a bucket of water over my positivity.
How can I focus on my own appearance while Hanry could be suffering in a dark, dank, and mushroom-ridden dungeon? What if he’s so hungry that’s all he has to eat? Wall fungus?
“Mandy,” I say tightly. “No.”
“But, um… I was thinking you’d maybe want to change?”
I grab the hem of my wedding dress and shake it. “What do you think will happen if I take this off?”
“Our hosts will probably get angry.”
“Naked. Bad,” says Matthew the stylist. A desperate sweat has broken out over his forehead, belying his placid expression. Poor guy. If the enchantment can’t fully override his sense of aesthetics, this castle must be doing numbers on him.
“Don’t worry,” I promise everyone. “Hanry has been naked enough for all of us. This dress is staying on. But Matthew, if you have any ideas, I’m all ears. Also, what are the odds you’ve got a portable phone charger?”
At 7:15 precisely, Mandy and I parade our MUA and stylist to Princess May’s bridal suite in the aptly named Green Wing.
“It’s Spüktacular Weddings,” I announce with false cheer. You would never know I’d managed a mere two hours of sleep. That half the night I stayed up worrying about Hanry. Or that I’m preparing to cause more mayhem than is normative among theleastnormative members of the Community.
As an honored guest of Fairyland, New York, Princess May was placed in a suite that exceeds ours in lavishness. The seating area brims with activity: there’s a harpist, a flutist, and a would-be sumo wrestler in a tutu performing interpretive dance. I’m not sure who these people are. Is it an entourage? Are they bridesmaids? Then I notice anawkwardly dressed male mannequin chilling in a recliner, a rug tossed over its head. And then I decide it’s not my business.
“Announcing Samantha and Mandy,” May’s door-fairy says, pitchy-squeaky like a train on poorly maintained tracks. “Matthew and Shaki.”
“I told you. Stop. Talking,” says a low woman’s voice. “You grate on my ears.”
I seek out and find the imperious voice’s source: a petite Asian girl with a chin-length bob, wildly untamed eyebrows, and a chic, modern gold crown held in place by bonsai antlers. The girl—princess, I should say—looks like she’s barely eighteen. Her skin is crazy-perfect; not a trace of acne. Has it been magically removed? All I know for sure is that this is 100 percent Hanry’s future wife—based off her antlers,crown, and the bored expression, which fails to conceal the personality of a block of cheese.
Also, I hate her. I hate how pretty she is, in spite of her rude expression.
“Did you bring your team to get me ready?” Princess May smirks. “By the way, nice dress.”
I stick out my hand. “Samantha Spük. Nice to meet you, Princess May.”
My rival flutters her eyelashes but stays regally still.
