“Indeed. My clients await you both.”
Dismissing his servant, Rochester takes over leading our odd triumvirate through the hallways. Mandy alternates between randomly complimenting all of us.
“You look nice,” she says, choosing me for the moment.
“I look like a bride.”
“No! She’ll be prettier than you tomorrow,” Mandy observes bluntly. “Wow, I would just LOVE to know who she is!”
Licking my wounds, I mutter, “I’m guessing the princess of Fairy.”
“No, no.” Shaking her head, Mandy says, “Theirprinceis the one marrying.”
Huh. Typically, with humans, the bride’s family hosts the wedding in their hometown. I should’ve known by this point not to make assumptions.
“So what’s the deal?” I ask. “Are we working for the groom’s mother, then? A fairy queen?” From Mandy’s blank expression, I can tell she hasn’t thought to ask these questions. She probably thought of little except accosting Rochester each time he visited the shop.
On the bright side? I can tell I’ll be getting my answers soon, because the hallway is opening up and giving increasingly royal energy. Ahead, the green walls give way to a lushly garlanded balcony and reveal the top of a grand, ostentatious staircase. Of course, it’s no straightforward staircase. Why would anyone want steps or railings or anything remotely functional? Instead of carpentry, the castle’s fairy designers have employed a gigantic bonsai tree to act as a staircase, stretching from the lower floor to this one. Wafting up from the base of the grievous botanical addition, I hear a chorus of flutes and string instruments and laughter. Also braying.
According to the agreed-upon quote Rochester delivered some six weeks ago, the wedding is meant to take place in a castle area he’d listed as “T Room.” I suspect that stands for Throne Room, not Toilet Room, as Bulan had repeatedly suggested. The area downstairs of the grand, sentient staircase—which had been dubbed “TS” for Tree Staircase—must be the State Room.
This does not explain the donkey.
“I’m getting Jane Austen meetsFernGullyvibes,” I say to Jurgis, grinning. “What about you?”
“I’m a photographer,” he reminds me.
Rochester, in his stiff and obtuse way, interjects, “The banquet appears to have finished. I will proceed to the Royal Wing and confirm our hosts are prepared to greet you. You will discuss the event timeline for tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good, Roachster,” I say.
He stalks off down the hall, presumably taking a servants’ staircase to the party. There’s no way to tell: there aren’t candles in that section of the hallway, making it absolutely pitch-black. A void. Adecision, I tell you.
This leaves Mandy, Jurgis, and I with no choice but to peek over the railing and eyeball the revelers from above. Long tables familiar from our planning documents are covered in tray after tray of lavish food and floral arrangements and a disturbing amount of sparkle. The food’s being cleared by green-haired servants. Past the banquet, I make out the castle entryway. It’s as gloriously horrible as I’d hoped. In fact, it’s worse. I never thought a tree would interrupt the royal aesthetic. But prints of modern art? In neon? Yikes. I have a feeling my past months’ diverted note-taking from wedding TikTok, Instagram Reels, and blog reading will come in handy.
“Do you see the bride or groom anywhere?” Mandy asks me.
“No, I don’t. How would I know who they are? If brides don’t wear white, what do they wear? And what about the grooms?”
“I don’t know,” says Mandy, leaving me to discern that the crowd is primarily wearing embroidered tunics, complicated dresses, and fur capes. They also appear to be fanning out from the tables like they’re about to mob us with a flash-dance routine.
The music stops. I guess not.
“Step back,” says Mandy, grabbing me and Jurgis. She draws us back, her voice shriller. “Sabby!”
No sooner have we been tugged from the balcony than I hear a collective shout.
“WILD CHASE!”
“MANDY,” I whisper-scream. I know next to nothing about fairies, but a wildanythingcan’t be good. Especially when pronounced in unison. Sure enough, Mandy dives for an alcove, her ruffled skirt ballooning behind her. I follow, bringing Jurgis down with us—he cradles his camera protectively—and the three of us tumble into a heap, not a moment too soon: a slew of arrows cuts through the air, arcing over the balcony railing.
“Holy shit!” I shout, scrambling to get untangled and upright.
More arrows come. They go wide and low or whatever it is arrows do, gouging into the floorboards on our every side. Somehow I’m not struck. Just squashed. I think we’re all okay. A demented cheer rings out fromthe worst guests ever, followed by barking and scuttling and shouts. I crane my neck to see past Mandy’s curls. An antelope, a fox, and a hawk dash up the tree staircase. We survived the arrows, but we’re about to be stampeded, like tragic westward settlers on the Oregon Trail. But no—the animals witness our pitiful state and take off down the hallway opposite us. The crowd below lets out anawwwof extreme disappointment.
When it’s clear no more arrows are coming—at least not imminently—I dislodge Jurgis’s camera strap from where it’s wrapped around my elbow and get to my feet.
“Whew!” Mandy pants. “That was close!”
