The princess closes her eyes, calm overcoming her beautiful, pearlescent face. “You’re right.”
“Thanks.”
Having had enough of this, May leaves the altar and places herself between them in a swirl of silk. I skedaddle, removing myself from the scene in time for her to shout:
“I object!”
The wedding guests absolutely lose their shit. And so do Bulan and Hanry, pausing in their weakly attempted displays of viciousness. And me? I don’t know whether to pump a fist in the air or to cry.
“What do you mean?” asks Bulan, his voice wretched. Overwrought. And frankly, a bit too Shakespearean. “I’ve waited a millennium for you!”
Confused, I watch on.
“These displays have been most pathetic. And so I’ve decided. Today”—May stretches out her arms, and her floor-length sleeves, with grandness—“I am not marrying you, Bran. Or you, Hanry. I am marrying… myself.”
The princess snaps her slender fingers, and the harpist begins playing Lizzo.
“Most theatrical ceremony I’ve ever seen,” comments one of the fairy guests.
“Absolutely fantastic.”
“I want a human wedding someday!”
“Oh yes. I predict it’ll be all theragenext season!”
I’ve finally stopped reeling in the wake of Hanry and May’s disasta-wedding. Instead, I’m reveling in it alongside the guests. The reception hall crackles with energy and laughter, in spite of its lack of newlyweds to receive. A party is still a party, after all—particularly if said celebration is filled with alleged “pranks.” Because that is the absolute best thing the chaos-happy contingent of Fairyland can imagine.
And, frankly, if Mab and Tits are happy—and Mab, at least, seems euphoric; Tits is still nowhere to be found—who am I to object?
Once I’ve finished organizing the catering fairies, I wind through the crowds of guests to the lavishly decorated head table. Many guestsmill about, having long since abandoned their plated meals for dancing. Overlooking them all, Prince Hanry slumps in his seat, alone. The place settings for his parents and May remain untouched; the chairs to his right and left, unoccupied.
Until I slip into the seat beside him.
Now that I’m off my feet, I’m unable to hold back a gigantic sigh of relief. I’ve probably done thirty thousand steps today, and my toes prickle as blood returns. My stomach growls even more noticeably. Basically, I’m a bodily orchestra. For better or for worse, I’m too tired to care.
“Mind if I eat that?” I ask, gesturing at Hanry’s untouched steak and potatoes.
“Be my guest.”
“Already am,” I answer, shoveling a fork of buttery goodness into my mouth. I swallow, gratefully, because I amstarving. I better add granola bars and snack packs to the emergency kit for next time. Maybe water bottles too, because my breath stinks, and that’s arguably more important than food.
Plus, you never know when you’ll need to melt a wicked witch.
“I know you’re mad at me,” says Hanry.
Oh, does he?
Bolstering myself with a mega-fast pep talk, I finally allow myself to look at my ex-boyfriend. A few strands of hair have gone rogue from his hair pomade. He has a paper cut on his lip, but otherwise, Hanry has escaped without impressive or dreamy battle scars. His gaze touches mine for a moment, fleetingly—just long enough for me to read regret. Digging into a front pocket of his tunic, Hanry reveals a folded-up parchment. He places it between us.
“I was never going to marry May,” he says. “See? I had my wedding vows. They weren’t lost.”
“How was that going to keep you from getting married?” I ask.
“I planned to seek an annulment. You see, my legal name isn’t Hanry. It’s Henry. A wedding for May and ‘Hanry’ would have been invalid from the start.”
Despite myself, I laugh, dropping my fork loudly on his china plate. “I always thought Hanry was a weird name.”
“No you didn’t.”
