I gape. I actually gape. Where is this coming from?
“That’s like… not even it.”
“I’m waiting outside,” says Mandy. She half crawls, half tumbles off the bed on her way out.
“Fine, thanks for doing your job ofhelping me,” I shout after her.
Mandy slams the door. With a deep sense of pain and injustice, I unstick myself from Jane’s black pantsuit and douse myself with the chilled water pitcher on the bedside table. Then I shimmy into the only dress in the armoire. It’s horrible. Terrible. It feels like yet another accusation. A condescending statement in fabric form.You think you’re some kind of an expert wedding planner? Really?asks the dress, all rude and swishy.Ha ha ha ha.
Sure, fine. You’re right, dress: I swore to leave that part of my life behind, and yet, here I am. No, it doesn’t really make sense. So what? I’ll do what I want. And I want—for reasons I can’t handle dwelling on right now—to be here. Doingthis.
At least the dress doesn’t have petticoats or a train, or a line of buttons reaching to infinity and beyond.
In fact, it fits so perfectly, I suspect Rochester snuck my measurements to a tailor. I’m not sure how he got those, actually; I should ask him what they are. You never know when that info might come in handy.
I’m staring at myself in a floor-length mirror when a knock comes at the door.
“Mandy?” I call out. “If that’s you, come in. Apologize and witness my shame.”
“I’m a photographer,” a voice says from the other side.
Photographer?
Seeing my eyes widen in the mirror, I hurriedly mask my surprise. In my original wedding outline, I had the photographers coming on the wedding day, not the night before. I suppose our clients could’ve modified this with Mandy’s approval. What other changes could she have made? I’ve got to get my hands on our clipboard outlining the details.
“Come in,” I say, moving toward Mandy’s luggage.
I haven’t fully crossed the room before the door opens, and the wedding photographer shambles in. I stare at him and his strong, chiseled jaw. The expensive camera around his neck. His appearance of being in stork-patterned pajamas.
“You’re… Jurgis Boggus,” I say aloud. “They really hired you? Really?”
“I’m a photographer,” he repeats.
“I know. You’re practically the top wedding photographer in the world. You completely revolutionized night portraits.”
“Night,” says Jurgis. “Beautiful. Yes.”
The smile on Jurgis’s face remains fixed. Feeling unnerved, I wave a hand in front of his face. His smile remains white and straight-toothed, with only the slightest exposed gum. Jurgis Boggus does not apologize for the bird-themed holiday pajamas. Jurgis Boggus doesn’t move, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. But I do, and although I knew it was coming, I’m still dimly horrified by it.
“Are you aware they enchanted you?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” Jurgis says in a thick accent. It’s Lithuanian, right? I think he’s Lithuanian royalty. Oh, perfect. That makes this an international incident.
“I wrote your name as a joke. Sorry,” I say. “In a court of law, that’s what I’ll maintain.”
“Excuse me?”
I pat his shoulder. “Come with me,” I say. “Can you do that?”
Though Jurgis neither nods nor verbalizes any confirmation, he appears able to take direction. If anything, he seems pleased to have something to do. This is great news, overall. Jurgis can follow orders. And if the other vendors are similarly enchanted, that means I’ve beenmade the commander of a tiny zombie wedding army. Ahem. Not that I approve of brainwashing.
Reveling in my power, I find the clipboard in Mandy’s bag. Then I guide Jurgis to the hallway. The green-haired fairy who Rochester stationed at the door perks up, though Mandy is nowhere in sight. That is… troubling. Also troubling: how he’s ogling me with obscene delight.
“Soyouare Samantha Spük,” he says. “Hmm, interesting.”
That’s it.
“Are humans fascinating in some disturbing way to you? Or do you think a wedding planner is supposed to have a big neon sign flashing over their head or something?”
