“I had no idea what else to do,” Mandy continues. “I still needed to pay rent.”
I return my useless phone back into my chest bag and refocus on Mandy. She seems genuinely upset.
“Mandy. You’ve done a lot these last few weeks. You deserve more from me. And better.”
“It’s okay!”
“Wage theft isn’t.”
She cocks her head to the side. “What isthat?”
“Something I learned about in college. But seriously, why didn’t you try to find a new job when you ran out of money?”
“Oh, umm. I didn’t want to leave Salem, and, well… Remember how happy Fi was? And Sidney? If I could make that happen again, I knew I would. No matter how hard it was.” After a moment’s pause, she bursts out, “Wow, didn’t that sound weighty?”
“It did,” I agree. Reaching into my duffel, searching for my laptop case, I say, “Let’s lean into that energy. I’ve heard that faking it till you make it works. So from now on, your new name is Serious Mandy.”
“Yay!”
“But I’m going to keep calling you Mandy.”
“Okay!”
“That’s probably all the time we have to catch up,” I say. Pulling out my laptop and opening it, I ask, “What do we need to do to make this wedding happen tomorrow? Where are we on details? I remember the couple originally wanted to use a local vendor for the flowers, but have you been able to follow up with them to talk about responsibilities for setup?”
Mandy passes me a folder of her own, and together, we enter a familiar discussion. Which feels nice, until I realize none of the answers to my questions are precise enough to offer peace of mind. Each one forces me to write, inevitably,Discuss on arrival. Worst of all?
“The bride and groom didn’t fill out their family background surveys. In fact, Mandy, there’s no information in here about them at all.”
“It’s probably because the mother of the bride is another Becuille mac Nuadat type. You know, what’s that word you used?”
“Momzilla,” I say.
“Yeah! She probably wanted to make sure you didn’t talk to the REAL bride and groom to find out what THEY wanted. I bet she thinks she’s being sneaky. Oh, what chaos!”
No kidding. If we have this right, then the cunning and callousness I’ve experienced so far bodes poorly for tomorrow’s wedding. And it explains why I’m struck by a moment of terror as Rochester calls on the horses to halt, and Mandy crawls across the seat to the curtains, pulling the fabric back to reveal our final destination.
A goddamned fairy castle.
23THE GODDAMNED FAIRY CASTLE
LET ME EXPLAIN WHAT THATlooks like.
You take the Disney World template and squeeze it around the middle like a tube of toothpaste, so the bottom and top bulge to bursting. Then you throw in a little extra leafery and accidental trees sticking out of windows. And maybe drop in walls with angles that aren’t strictly correct. Example: a second-floor greenhouse lingering without support underneath (though it’s connected to the castle by an arched stone bridge, obviously). A roof composed of tulips instead of tiles. On top of all that, you add an extremely intimidating verticality. Like since when did you need more than one, or at most, two turrets in a building? Why twenty? Doeseveryoneneed their own winding staircase? What about ADA access? The more I look at it, the more my discomfort grows. Then eases. Then grows. Then completely, utterly dissipates.
Yeah, all right. It’s a fairy castle. So, presumably, I am here to help throw a royal fairy wedding. This explains the preposterous budget. And the spectacular Momzilla-levels of entitlement. And the secrecy. But you know what?
These fairies haveno taste.
And I know how to work with that.
As much as I can’t wait to hate-view the castle entry hall, it’s probably for the best that Rochester deposits our spaghetti squash coach at the rear-facing servants’ entrance. The moment we step out, we’re met with a security screening procedure rivaling TSA’s.
“Please pass over your bag,” drones a fairy in combat boots. She taps at a sign covered with gibberish. “Any under-wing items will be confiscated if found upon inspection.”
“None of us have wings,” I nearly say, but stop myself. Beneath my classy couture pantsuit, I reek of alcohol and pumpkin sweat. My previously trustworthy pet head isn’t here to guide me in courtly fairy manners. If I’m going to help Mandy pull this wedding off, I need to offend as little as possible. So I hold my tongue.
Which is truly difficult to do when, past the security checkpoint, we enter a scene stolen straight from a middle-schooler’s D&D game. Tall, obscenely attractive workers swarm us. They take my duffel and Mandy’s luggage, staring openly at me. One photographs me with his phone, and I see he’s got Snapchat open. Cringing under their attention, I can’t help wondering if these fairies have lived their whole lives on this property and I’m the first human they’ve encountered. Is that possible, or do I just stink worse than I realized?
