“Cool, cool,” I say. Then I call over a catering fairy. “Add an extra place setting to the head table, will you?”
“No!” Mab commands, halting them. “It’s asecretguest. We can’t spoil the surprise by giving them a place to sit.”
“Sure,” I say, in spite of the fact that no one will be in the reception area until after the wedding is done. The customer’s always right, after all. To move her along, I bring up another topic: “Your Highness, once Jurgis is done in here, he’ll head to Princess May’s room to photograph the bridal party. Did you still want to do a first look?”
“Do I ever!” she cries.
It takes a good half hour before I rediscover Mandy. Rather, she finds me, as Hanry is being paraded from his rooms by a mime-guard entourage. I refuse to watch as he is walked out beneath the cloudy sky onto the turret bridge to behold his fiancée in her royal wedding finery. I’m too busy directing the first set of guests from their carriages to the courtyard for their champagne reception.
Okay, that’s not true.
I seeeverything. The way Hanry holds himself away from Princess May—whereas if it were me, he would’ve turned his chest in to cradle my shoulders. How he poses for a photo, stiff—whereas if it were me, he would mold himself into my warmth. I notice the closed-lip grimace he makes when a minion with a parasol ushers Jurgis onto the balcony, and Jurgis guides his hand onto the princess’s shoulder. The way Hanry jolts when Jurgis clasps their hands together, bares his teeth, and goes for their wrists.
Hanry may be ridiculously conflict-adverse, but he’s still Hanry: he holds Jurgis back gently. Kindly. I know these attributes are what let his mother control him so easily. I’m certain a woman like May will walk all over him.
Hanry deserves better than that; he deserves someone who will respect him.
But if he doesn’t want to fight for something better, that’s his choice. He’s shoveling his own grave, so to speak, and I refuse to let myself be buried with him. Swallowing back the hurt, which feels like a clod of dirt catching in my throat, I elbow Mandy softly in the side.
“So.” I cough to correct the weakness in my voice. “So, you snagged the Roach.”
She squeals. “I know!”
“Come on, spill. How’d you do it?”
“He’s impressed with how serious I am!” Mandy squeals again. Because I have literally nothing to say to this, she explains: “He said that I’m always composed and prepared. He finds me verysensible.”
Rochester’s intelligence just dropped significantly in my estimation. But hey, after all the hard work Mandy has done to pull off this wedding, she deserves a reward. Though, frankly, I think she could do better.
I pat her shoulder. “How about you go ahead? Make like a lovebird or whatever and hang with Rochester for a while, if you like. I’ll greet the officiant and our DJ on my own.”
Mandy’s eyes dart to mine, equal parts dubious and excited. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” I say, forcing a smile. The glimpse of my teeth seems to discomfit her slightly, but after hugging me, she skips off in search of her lover. That’s fine. Sure, I was planning to ask Mandy to help me find Bulan, but falling in love doesn’t happen every day. And if it happens at a wedding, well… what kind of a jerk would get in the way of that?
“Samantha, I do not want to say that you are being a jerk—”
“Then don’t call me one. I’m not jerking you or anyone else around.” It’s T-minus five minutes before Hanry’s wedding, and I’m trapped in an argument with Rochester. For the most part, the guests are seated. The enchanted DJ is poised at his booth, eyes glazed over, and hands moving frenetically—indicating he’s unaware his sound system blew out the room’s lone electrical outlet, rendering him useless. At least he’s trying to do his job, unlike Hanry’s fairy godmother. As our wedding officiant, Rochester isn’t supposed to be with me in the antechamber; he should be front and left with Mandy, ready to stride up to the altar. But he is not cooperating with the spirit of the situation.
He is calling me names.
“I do not believe Hanry’s heart is in it,” he is saying.
“Yeah? Well, one could argue my heart should be broken too.”
The stoic fairy appears less than pleased. So basically, he appears as much as ever like a weathered chunk of rock.
“And yet,” he says. “You are participating in this scheme. And you seem happy.”
“I like what I do,” I reply tersely. “Even more than I like Hanry. Which begs the question: What’s withyourchange of heart? You should have protested this union ages ago.”
His glance at Mandy answers that question.
“You believe in true love now? Aww,” I say despite myself. “Well, do you think it’s possible Princess May feels truly in love with Hanry too?”
Rochester doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Last I checked, Mayknew she was getting a great deal: she was glowing, ecstatic, and kept mentioning facial hair to her bridesmaids. Presumably she’s excited about Hanry’s hair, not her own. Fairies seem universally smooth-skinned. It really takes beard-envy to new and soaring heights.
Feeling done with our argument—and done thinking about Hanry’s good qualities—I paste on my most professional face.
