Maybe it’s not just the pantsuit. Maybe they smell the city on me, the stuffyeau de EFG. The whiff of ink on freshly printed spreadsheets. They must be thinking: What’s a dull and washed-out girl like that doing here? They can’t see what I am. What I’m capable of. Ialmostwant them to notice. Just, for the right reasons this time.
Unlike me, Mandy seems to be in her element.
“Being invited to royal grounds is such a treat!” she says as Rochester instructs the staff to take us deeper within the castle. “What an honor! I can’t believe this.”
With effort, she restrains a squeal, then squeals in delight that she’s managed it.
I pat her arm. “Good work.”
“I will show you to your rooms,” says Rochester. His expression is such a cross of staid irritation and detached, statuesque joylessness, I can’timagine a single bippity-boppity-boo in him. We follow the worst fairy godmother ever into a hallway with vines encircling a series of low, exposed wooden beams. Compared to the castle’s facade, the décor here is more cottagecore than confusing. Personally, I prefer a ceiling with more than a four-foot clearance, but that’s just me. As we proceed through the hallway, mimicking hunchbacked zombies, Mandy grabs onto a vine, plucks off a pink honeysuckle, and sucks on it with a creepy, full-body giggle.
“Oh my sugar starfish, this gets better and better, Sabby! Ahhhh!”
“Please do not eat our house,” Rochester says, stonily turning to lead us into a more functionally heighted hallway. The wooden beams with their flowering vines ascend beyond Mandy’s reach. That said, as we pass through the doorway and straighten our backs, I get the weirdest sense that I recognize the patterns carved into the wood. Should I be concerned? Maybe, but who’d be surprised if Grandma Rose somehow stole fairy art and forgot it in a cupboard?
“So, Roachster,” I say. “Any chance our rooms have a printer? Phone chargers? Also, wet wipes?”
“I can arrange for towels while you make yourself comfortable.”
“Great. So, is the rehearsal dinner still happening?” I ask. “Any chance we can pop in?”
“Sabby,” whispers Mandy with unnecessary confidentiality, “our clients don’t want us at the wedding banquet tonight.”
I don’t bother to whisper back. “Why not?”
“Well… it’s a banquet, not a rehearsal dinner.”
I push away the honeysuckle she’s trying to hide behind.
“Mandy,” I say, worry spiking. “How much of the proposal did our clients actually accept? What changes did they make that you haven’t told me about?”
“We have clothes for you in your quarters,” Rochester interrupts. “You may also bathe if you wish. Though I must inform you, you two will share facilities tonight. Guests have taken the other rooms.”
I stare at him. It almost seems like he’s intervening with an olive branch. Either that, or he hasn’t heard a single word Mandy and I have said to each other.
All right. Here’s my new plan: I’ll shower tonight, then catch up on the revised wedding schedule with Mandy, niggling out any details she may need my help uncovering. Maybe we’ll manage a few hours of sleep afterward.
Our room in the servants’ quarters, when Rochester leads us inside, instantly reminds me of Bulan’s beloved period dramas. It’s fussy, ornate, and armed with enough unique patterns to keep an MLM leggings company in business forever. Is there a reason, though, why the wood-paneled room has outlets, but not a single clock on the wall? Or a flat-screen? I search in vain for a helpful poster acknowledging the Wi-Fi password.
“I will let our hosts know you have arrived. They will be pleased to greet you in their Plangent Chamber,” announces Rochester. Then, stationing a fairy to wait outside our door, he exits.
“God, he’s so mysterious,” Mandy says, collapsing onto the closer of two canopy beds. Feathers escape and drift around her, cooing in disturbing agreement.
“Yes, Mandy. That is one way to describe a void of personality.”
I cross the room to the large armoire and do my best to spit-wipe my bra line while I search for a phone charger. Discovering only a USB-A charger in the back, I give up and peruse the mostly barren hangers in search of my promised new outfit. The pair of checkered pantaloons and the zebra rug—with head included—couldn’t be the clothes meant for me, could they? No. But I refuse to consider the one option that remains.
“So,” I say once I’m sure I haven’t overlooked anything obvious, like a secret portal to Narnia, “there’s nothing black in here.”
“Of course not. Fairies don’t wear black to weddings,” Mandy answers. She’s kicking her legs into the air dramatically to play with the fairy feathers.
“Then why are you in black?” I ask. “The staff we’ve met so far were wearing dark colors.”
“Ooh, ha ha. What a cutie!”
She’s ignoring me. I guess after a month, she’s out of practice following my leadership. More authoritatively, I say: “Mandy. Stop playing with those goddamn ghost geese feathers and help. There is nothingmarginallyappropriate in here for a wedding planner.”
“Just put a nice dress on!” Mandy shouts, frustration brimming over. “It’s not so bad if you look good for once, is it? Let yourself stand out. You might actually like it.”
