That is an insane understatement. “Mandy,” I say with difficulty, “were you aware that fairies confuse warfare and weddings?”
Mandy blinks at me, pure and innocent. “Oh, is this what human war is like?”
I’ve never wished so hard for Bulan to be back. But in his absence, I take a deep breath and try again. “Do you think more weapons are in our future? Yes or no.”
“I don’t know, maybe?”
As the music resumes, we hear a deep groaning from the staircase tree. It has begun writhing in displeasure, dislodging its branches from the walls in order to pluck out arrows. Apparently, the tree can’tbe satisfied with cosplaying a piece of architecture; it also has to be an Ent.
“Stop being extra,” I tell it. “You don’t hear the walls and floors complaining about the arrows that hitthem.”
“Mrrungghghghgh,” says the staircase tree.
Jurgis, grin cemented to his face, breaks from my hold. He picks an arrow up with blithe fascination. Reaches for his camera. “War photography. Journalism.”
“Yeah, this is normal,” I say, as if we aren’t facing our likely deaths. “Mandy, let’s go. I’m not waiting here for Rochester a second longer.”
She shrinks back. “But we’re supposed to stay here. If I go, will I seem flaky?”
“Better flaky than dead.”
Thankfully understanding the strength of this argument, Mandy tugs at Jurgis’s arm to get him to retreat. “I sure hope they haven’t repealed that statute against hunting pixies.”
Oh, great. Now we have to worry about that too?
We haven’t gotten four steps toward the safe, encircling arms of the hallway leading to the Royal Wing before the music screeches to a halt.
“WILD CHASE!” the crowd shouts again.
Aghghhhhh, this can’t be necessary. “Duck!” I yell.
Mandy and I launch ourselves at the pitch-black hallway. I’m aiming for a potentially protective column, but we don’t make it and crash down onto a floor rug. I cover my head. Jurgis jumps around, giggling about the beauty of the night. I hear whizzing through the air. Something strikes me, but it’s Jurgis’s camera as he trips on Mandy’s foot. An arrow slices through the marshmallow skirt of my wedding dress, gouging into the floor mere inches from my unsuspecting ankle.
Then, thank the violent fairy gods, the onslaught ends.
This time the tree’s groans are louder, more immediate. What animals are the fairies sending up now, elephants? Dromedary camels?
“Groom, groom, groom!” the crowd chants.
Mandy rolls off me and gasps.
“He’s running naked!” she cries.
I uncover my head. Judge me. If I’m going to die, I deserve to see this hilarity, at least. I search the staircase tree as it convulses and reaches with long, barky limbs to unpluck arrows from itself.
“They can’t seriously be making the groom dodge an attack the night before his wedding, can they?” I ask the air. Not to mention: Would they really make him do it naked?
“Well, maybe, but wait, no!” announces Mandy. “It looks like… oh my sugar starfish.”
Oh my—?
Oh.
Oh.
I catch Mandy’s eye, sharing my horror with her for a split second. Then I return my focus to the groom. The groom whose identity has been kept from me for weeks. The naked groom who stares at me, his blue eyes opened wide beneath a pair of expressive, whimsical eyebrows.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.
