“My name is not May.”
My smile doesn’t break. It’s Rule #1 of the wedding industry, right? Roll with everything. Even when you are facing up against someone who thinks they’re better than you, and they might be right. I mean, seriously, what does an accountant-pretending-to-be-a-wedding-planner have on a fairy princess?
“Okay,” I say. “What should I call you, then?”
“May is short forhime-sama. Of course, that isn’t my name either. In the same way Sabby isn’t your name. Except your name doesn’t signify royalty, of course.”
Got it. This princess is no block of anything. She’s the kind of person who plays at cute while busily unsheathing mascara from the tube in order to stab you with it. This makes her somewhat more interesting,butsonot Hanry’s type. He’d be more likely to end up with that sumo-dancer. At least they seem straightforward.
“My name signifies witches,” I say nonchalantly, not asking what her real name is. “And bad decisions.”
May raises an eyebrow. “Whose?”
“Great question. How about we discuss it while you get ready for your big day? Mandy here—who you met last night—will help Matthew and Shaki with their work.”
“Do I really need them?” May asks, waving dismissively at two of the best visual artists in the world. “I can cast my own glamour.”
“Mm-hmm! So, I’ll be back in about five hours with your lunch.”
“Five hours? Why so long?”
I could swear Shaki flinches at the princess’s imperious and annoyed tone, but Matthew merely smiles at his hair dryer. I unhand it from him and pat him on the shoulder. He deserves encouragement. After all, he helped get some charge back into my phone and did a bang-up job removing a foot of fabric from the hem of my wedding dress, making it easier for me to walk. Or run. Hopefully, when we escape from the castle, there will be a minimum of cardiac exertion.
An added bonus: it looks significantly less bridal now. I almost like it.
“This is a human wedding,” I explain to the princess. “Traditionally, human brides take hours to get ready. But we’ll go as fast as we can. Shaki, Matthew, find the power outlets and get on with it. Chop-chop!”
“I’ll do the chopping,” May tells Shaki as I leave.
Mandy stares after me with a kenneled-puppy expression. “Goodbye, Sabby,” she whisper-cries.
That poor pixie. I know she’s distraught at being forced to spend the morning in the bridal suite—the last place a male fairy named Rochester would be caught visiting. But I need Mandy here, using her oodles of charm to discover May’s motive for marrying Hanry. To ferret out any doubts. Then she can launch a devious attack, asking coy and innocent-seeming questions, spurning May to question her decision-making. Maybe we can convince the princess to call the wedding off.
Granted, the odds of that happening are astronomically low. Butis it wrong that I’d prefer to rescue Hanry in a way that doesn’t beget a lifetime of fairy wrath?
After all, May’s isn’t the only anger I have to worry about.
When I arrive at the State Room, I am witness, first and foremost, to Mab, the queen of Fairyland. A twenty-foot length of eucalyptus garland drapes her arms and shoulders. It looks like she’s carrying the love child she created with the tree staircase. Is she still drunk? Is this just the way she is?
No. They are my decorations for the State Room. How dare she!
“Good morning!” she calls out, fluttering the garland. “It’s very green.”
“Sure is,” I say. I smile at her as I walk to the head table, where a crow has perched, clamping a tuft of red hair in its beak: either a signal from Bulan or the result of an accident. Possibly both.
“Does Bulan want to see me?” I ask the bird. “If so, can it wait?”
“It’s greener than I wa-a-ant!” drawls Mab.
The crow spits out Bulan’s hair and jumps, painfully, from the table to my shoulder. I face the queen and say with hopefully veiled confusion, “I see.”
“Do you!?”
“Your Highness, the proposal suggested a largely green palette. Could you tell me what isn’t working for you?”
“We need more purple.” Mab drops the garland off one of her shoulders like she’s Marilyn Monroe. I half expect her to call me “darling” or something, but instead, she says, “Salmon-ella-bee, I just feel purple would be nice. PURPLE, DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, in hopes I sound appeasing.
