DAY THREE
Wedding Day!
11 a.m.
Wedding Ceremony in the Castle Library
Reception Immediately Following
6
Cleo
Cleo felt strange in the company of her little sisters. She had cooked breakfast every morning of their childhood until she left for college—Cleo had actually made pancakeson the dayshe left. She’d cleaned up afterward, then boarded a bus from Missoula to Billings, Minneapolis, Chicago, Cleveland, Newark, and finally the Manhattan Port Authority Terminal.
When her sisters were under ten, Cleo made them “egg-in-a-hole” (cutting a hole in bread, cracking an egg in, frying the combination) or blueberry muffins from the box. Donna could not be counted on for groceries, and she was usually asleep or in her room as they prepared for school. Cleo loved shopping with bills her father left her, relished placing folded napkins on the table, pouring juice in matching glasses. So much of life was impossible to solve, but breakfast was simple to fix.
All three Peacock girls were together again, but this time they sat in the middle of a kitchen that had been restored to its former Tudor glory, featuring an enormous fireplace on which a hunk of meat impaled on a metal spike was cooking and perhaps had been cooking for five hundred years. Two hapless women in flat felt hatswere hand-turning the spit intently. “See the mutton fat there on the left,” said one of the women. “Be sure to get that bit over the flame.”
It was 10a.m.
“Is there, like, maybe a diner? A Starbucks nearby?” said Emma. Cleo looked—really looked—at her sister. Emma’s face was lined, her hair squished from sleep and tangled. She had a strange, sad complacency; all the feisty spark Cleo associated with Emma—her cigarette-smoking, wild sister—was gone. Spending so much time apart made Cleo see Emma, who had once been completely known to Cleo, as a middle-aged stranger, a mother, no longer the person she had been. This transformation made Cleo anxious: Was Cleo the wild one now, if Emma was the motherly one?
“I just want a fucking cup of coffee,” said Emma. “What is evenhappeninghere?”
Cleo laughed, relieved to hear the old Emma inside the depleted woman sitting across from her.
“I probably should have been more involved in the wedding planning,” said Sylvie. “I left it all to Louisa, and I wasn’t really paying attention when she talked about breakfast in this historical kitchen or whatever it is. I think Simon said they’re filming in the Great Hall. They rent the palace for movies and TV shows, likeBridgerton.I actually think they may be filmingBridgerton,or a spin-off. I’ve never seen it. Have any of you guys seen it?”
Sylvie was high-strung, chittering and thrumming with a nervous energy. She’d always been this way, swamped in big sweaters, face framed by the hood of her boyfriend’s sweatshirt, eyes darting, seeking a way out. She’d traded high school hoodies for Simon’s overlarge Barbour coat. Her hair was twisted atop her head and held with…was Sylvie’s hair held up with two pencils? She looked like someone who belonged in a library, and only in a library, defenseless if not hidden amongst her organized shelves of books. Cleo felt a familiar panic for her weak and innocent sister, cut with the urgency and thrill of saving her.
“No, I haven’t seenBridgerton,” said Emma. “The boys are up later than we are, and they only want to watch YouTube videos.”
“Where are they?” said Sylvie.
“They’re all fast asleep. Our room is amazing! A two-room suite! I mean, did members of the royal familyactually livein my suite? I can’t believe I’m here, Syl. This is just surreal.”
Cleo was also bowled over but tried to play it cool. “Who decided the rooms?”
“We chose them together,” said Sylvie. “Simon and I. It’s funny, actually, we went out to dinner in Little Havana, and he drew the layout of Mumberton on a napkin. We made little napkin people of all of you and placed you all over the castle, imagining this day. And now it’s here!”
“That’s so romantic,” said Emma.
“Kind of weird,” muttered Cleo.
“Cleo…” said Emma in a warning tone. Cleo and Emma had discussed being supportive of Sylvie no matter what happened with Simon. They were both hoping the secret they kept from Sylvie could remain deeply buried, allowing Sylvie to retain a bit of innocence, some hope that love and honesty were possible. Emma and Cleo both feared, too, that if Sylvie discovered the truth, she’d stop speaking to them entirely. Emma had seemed unfazed by the sketchy origins of Simon’s fortune, but then Emma had always been optimistic.
“What? Napkin people? That’s not a bit odd?” asked Cleo.
As if summoned by the wordodd,three men in Tudor costumes entered the room carrying jugs. “Who might fancy a bit of mead?” said one.
“Is there any coffee?” said Emma. She rubbed her face with both of her palms.
“Ah, no, milady,” said a man wearing a voluminous coat over a small, fitted doublet jacket and hose pants tied to the jacket withstring points to keep them up. He also sported a wool hat that looked like a giant beige beret and a leather codpiece. “We have ale, as the Tudors did, or a hot cup of posset!”
“Posset,” chimed in one of the meat-roasting women, “is milk curdled with ale and spiced with star anise.”
“And sometimes cinnamon or cloves,” added the woman on the other side of the spit. Her face was crimson and she also wore a wool coat.
