Chapter 23 The Goddamned Fairy Castle #2
“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 been made 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.
“So you are 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?”
“Are you ready?” the door-fairy asks, annoyingly unperturbed. “If so, I will take you and your photographer to visit our hosts.”
I straighten. This is the first bit of good news I’ve had since arriving.
“Is that where my assistant went?” I ask, self-consciously touching my claw clip, then my dress.
“Potentially. Shall we?”
“Not yet.” This servant may be low-ranked, and he may dislike me, but I’ve got to try and fix my wardrobe problems while I can. “You may not have noticed, but the dress I’m in… it’s white.”
“Correct,” says the fairy servant.
“With a tulle skirt. And hand-beading.”
“Correct.”
“So, it’s a wedding dress.”
The door-fairy looks affronted. “Absolutely not.”
I stare at him until he looks bored.
“You know,” he says, “I expected a little more from you. Visually speaking.”
Fine. Goddamn fine whatever. “Jurgis? Let’s go.”
Light sparks in Jurgis’s eyes, like he’s equipped with his own internal flash button. “Photos now?”
“No, no. Save your batteries, bub.”
“You, bride?” he asks.
I have a feeling this will get old, fast.
The servant fairy guides us down long, winding corridors into a new section of the castle.
Here, the walls morph from cozy and torchlit to ornate and magical, decorated with old tapestries lit by candle sconces.
Said sconces hold floating balls of light.
The honeysuckle is orange, interspersed with purpling ivy.
And there’s more carvings overhead than ever.
Ugh. The colors and patterns are just not working. Only a professional designer could pull off this techno-magic and traditional décor, and clearly, such a designer was not involved in ornamenting this castle.
“Tell me this area won’t be part of the wedding,” I say to the fairy.
“It won’t be! We’re in the Green Wing, for visiting nobility.”
I mentally take note. After all, I’ll need acting knowledge of the castle’s layout for tomorrow.
“Ahh, there’s your assistant.”
Sure enough, Mandy lingers at the end of the hallway, speaking to none other than Rochester. Seeing me, she flounces over in a newly acquired balloon-bottomed dress. It is not white, which feels both like a relief and an insult.
“Mandy,” I say. “What’s going on? This schedule doesn’t match the quote I gave the Roachster.”
“Some things have changed,” she chirps. “Hi, Jurgis!”
So the appearance of this royal photographer doesn’t surprise her.
I rub my temples, making no effort to hide my annoyance.
Unexpected changes to the wedding timeline, a weird dress in my closet—it all points in a troubling direction.
I already knew that fairies were unhinged.
Who’s to say they wouldn’t throw a wrench in their own wedding, just for funsies?
And then throw the blame on us somehow?
Rochester interrupts my silent contemplation with manly throat-clearing. I’m impressed when Mandy only melts incrementally against me.
“Sorry,” she says. “Do we need to keep moving?”
“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, “Their prince is 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 meets FernGully vibes,” 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. A decision, 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 wild anything can’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 from the 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 an awww of 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!”
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’t be 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 hit them.”
“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.
“Help,” Hanry says, right before the tree pushes him back down the stairs.