Chapter 24 Is This Real LifeIs It a （Really Weird） Fantasy?
HERE, AS FAR AS I can see it, are my problems:
I am in Fairy. Which is, apparently, in Upstate New York.
I am in a fairy castle.
I am in a wedding dress, in a fairy castle, in Fairy.
But I am not getting married. Oh no. My ex-boyfriend is.
My ex-boyfriend who was nearly murdered at his own wedding party.
I think it was meant to be a joke?
I now think I’m also here, hired as his wedding planner, as a joke.
To add insult to injury, the wooden floor in this royal en suite seems to burp a little with each of my pacing steps. Not creak, not hiccup. Burp.
And it’s only happening to me.
“She’ll be fine,” Mandy is saying on my behalf.
The pixie sits primly on one of two oak chairs, across from the raised, velvet-upholstered divan beds where our royal fairy clients sprawl out with bejeweled chalices in hand.
Behold: the king and queen of Fairy. The most bizarrely spiral-antlered, yet gorgeous people—or beings—I’ve ever seen. Also, they’re Hanry’s parents.
Also also? They’re drunk.
Mandy says with a shaking voice, “This is what Sabby always does at the start of consultations. She, she paces in silence. It helps her summon her, umm, inspiration.”
This is absolutely not the case. Do they all not hear the floor burping? Who can think through all this burping?
I’ve got to try and clear my head. Okay.
Sure. You could argue this whole situation is my fault, because I never demanded Rochester tell me who his clients were before moving forward.
I never made Hanry explain his full connection to the Community.
I might have, in fact, discouraged him from talking about it, because I’ve avoided the paranormal myself for so long.
I took the references his paranormal friends made to his “nobility” and “princeliness” as an inside joke, not at face value.
Clearly, this was my mistake. But wait, no more victim-blaming here: Hanry promised he was human, which means he outright lied to me. I thought I could trust him. And he did that?
“I see,” the queen says to Mandy, sloshing her drink artfully. “Hello. Hello, Salmon-tha. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. My pooka told us so much about you. My son, too, but also my pooka.”
Hold it. Her what?
“Oh!” cries Mandy. “Sabby, did you hear that?”
Of course I did. My weeks of torment flash back to mind. I dealt with at least a dozen tiny, chaotic sabotage attempts while I tried to coordinate my weddings, and they all came courtesy of a pooka whose sender remained mysterious.
Of course that chaos was sent by a fairy. A goddamned fairy! I can’t believe I didn’t guess it right away. The only question is: Why?
No. I know why. The pooka said it was messing with the weddings as tests. Which means this royal fairy Momzilla inflicted sabotage on me to confirm I could handle anything. She was willing to ruin several other weddings to feel confident I’d be a top-notch wedding planner for her son.
Either that, or she did it as a joke. Because I was dating her son.
Hanry said his parents loved jokes. He also said they were “not perfect” and situations with them tended to spiral out of control. This more than checks out.
And now I’m realizing: when we broke up in the catering closet, Hanry told me he’d been fighting with his parents. Moreover? Hanry just asked for my help, giving me the impression he’s not entirely on board with this situation.
So what if Hanry made a few omissions while we dated? Evidently, it wasn’t all lies.
Hopefully.
In any case, I’m here. I may not be at the wedding I was expecting, but it’s time to take back control. Why? Because I may be Hanry’s ex-girlfriend and the butt of at least three jokes I can count, but I’m also a goddamned wedding professional.
And now, it’s my job to prove it.
Feeling the blood flowing back into my extremities, I return to my chair. Yes, I do so in a frothy cloud of tulle and a burping Hallelujah chorus, but I’m able to paste on my thousand-watt wedding planner smile and curtsy before I take my seat.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I say, imbuing my voice with dripping-honey warmth. “Queen…?”
“Mab,” she drawls into her wine.
“Tits,” says Hanry’s dad. He’s not fully straight-faced, the bastard. I bet that’s a fake name.
“Pleasure to meet you, Your Highnesses, Queen Mab, King Tits.”
“I’m a photographer,” says Jurgis from where he’s been made to sit cross-legged in the corner of the room. Gustavo, the Academy Award–winning Spanish director whom Rochester has brought to join us, adds with a similarly enchanted air, “I am a videographer.”
“Have you enjoyed our hospitality so far?” Mab asks me and Mandy, as if we weren’t pelted with arrows five minutes ago. Oh, look at that: King Tits is giggling behind his hand.
Fuck it. I’m not giving Hanry’s parents an ounce more of my respect than I’ve already given.
The sarcasm-off is officially on.
“It’s been great,” I say. Plucking at my skirt, I add, “Thanks for getting my measurements right. To be fair, the length was slightly off, but your tailor noticed right away.”
Mab frowns. “He did?”
“Mmm, yeah. One of his arrows sliced off a bit of hem. It now fits perfectly.”
Mandy, not following, interrupts. “Why is she wearing a wedding dress?”
The king has been waiting for this.
“Because it’s funny,” he chortles. “Isn’t it funny?”
“It’s very funny,” agrees Mab.
A dark cloud gloms onto me, but I bat it aside. “We have a lot to discuss for tomorrow,” I say. “Mandy let me know you ran out of time to complete our surveys. Could you quickly tell us about the bride? Is she here at the castle and able to join us, by any chance?”
“She doesn’t need to join!” Tits says. But I disagree: I need to know my enemy. The woman who would dare marry Hanry right beneath my slightly bumpy nose.
“If we could be introduced, it’ll help me get a sense of how to instruct our photographer and videographer—”
“Princess May is our guest. She has traveled from Japan and has made her needs clear to us. We will handle everything on her behalf,” says Mab, so firmly I know it won’t be useful to push further. I let it go. In spite of my dread, I ask: “How about the groom?”
Tits replies with eager, sparklingly evil eyes. “Our son, Hanry—”
“Whom you’ve met,” says Mab.
“—is the groom.”
“Whom you’ve met,” says Mab again, louder this time. “I believe you’ve gotten very close. I’m sure you’ll know just how to make the day perfect for him.”
I refuse to blanch and play into their hands.
“Of course, Your Fairy Majesties,” I say sweetly. “Though I have to say the wedding details are… surprising, considering what I know about him.”
“We had to make the day more befitting of a prince,” says Mab. “He’s too simple sometimes. Too rugged, too rough-edged.”
“Too manly,” agrees Tits.
Huh. They’re just listing synonyms for “sexy.” This is weird.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“He takes after his natural parents,” says Tits. “They’re from New Hampshire.”
I nod, fighting hard to keep my expression neutral. So Hanry was honest about being human—that’s a relief. Since he was adopted, that makes him a—what’s the term? Changeling? No wonder the apple fell far from the tree. I consult my imaginary notes. “Is his bride human too?”
“Goodness, no!” Mab says. “She has lovely straight black hair. Unlike yours.”
That was uncalled for. I mutter, “I dye it, anyway. I’m a natural blond.” Seeing as this doesn’t win me any points, I move on. “Would there be time tonight I can speak to him?”
“He’s all tied up,” says Tits. “No visitors allowed!”
All tied up? “I understand that, but we have a list of questions—”
“I have them here!” Mandy pulls the relationship survey from our planning folder. “Here’s number one! ‘How would you describe the groom and bride’s relationship, and how do you know they’re in love?’ ”
I glare at my employee, who doesn’t have a single situationally aware bone in her pixie body. Unaware of the pain this conversation is causing me, or possibly just cruel, Mab waves her chalice-free hand in the air like a confused bird.
“Oh, you know how it is. Their relationship’s tumultuous! But Hanry has to marry someone.”
“And Princess May only likes humans,” Tits adds. “It was the easiest match!”
Something goes thunk inside my chest. At the same time, another feeling uncrinkles, like a ball of foil being opened back up.
This wasn’t—isn’t—a love match. Hanry hasn’t fallen hard for May, the Japanese fairy princess.
His parents arranged the marriage. This isn’t his choice. She isn’t who he wants.
Maybe—underneath all of it, I feel a whisper of hope—he still wants me.
Mab continues, “It’s true; she does have a penchant for the antlerless. I see her wisdom, of course. Humans grow much better beards. Don’t you think, Sam-a-bantha?”
“Hanry has a great shot at a beard,” I hear myself answer. “He should go for it.”
“Prince Hanry,” Mandy corrects me quietly. “You have to call him His Highness.”
Thankfully, Mab doesn’t notice my error. And Tits is busily rubbing his chin and looking at the floor as if embarrassed by his follicular scarcity.
This whole thing is almost impossible to wrap my head around.
I’m overwhelmed with questions. Like, how long has Hanry been set up to marry this fairy princess?
Was he cheating on her? On me? And how does he feel about it, really?
He sure didn’t look happy running up the stairwell butt naked.
Call me a bad person, but the idea that he might be fighting for his life makes me feel slightly better about him keeping his engagement under wraps.