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“I’m curious myself,” I say, sipping my sparkling water. I’d rather have a shot of whiskey prior to my nuptials, but out of respect for Etienne, I’m abstaining. I’m just happy he’s here.
If only our father could see how well the Reckless Royals are getting along these days, all because of his ridiculous decree.
I glance down at today’s headlines scrawled across the front page of theTimes, and read, “Wild Prince to Marry Today. Palace insiders say bride snubbed king’s important friends.”
While I don’t like the implication that Stasi would snub anyone, the overall display reflects poorly the most on the king. There’s a photo of us and the siblings taken at the baby shower a few weeks ago, looking happy and laughing, next to a highly unflattering image of the king.
Perhaps Father hoped that an extremely pregnant bride would reflect so poorly on me in the court of public opinion that I would fold under pressure. Or maybe he thought the public would declare the whole situation tacky and unseemly for someone about to be king.
But that has yet to happen. I try not to pay attention to headlines, but at the rate that gifts have been pouring in at the palace and at Callum Black’s cottage, I’d say that our popularity is not in jeopardy.
And speaking of Callum, he’s here, too, keeping to himself in the corner. Like me, the gamekeeper isn’t particularly fond of big to-dos.
He’s been quiet today, even for him. Especially since Flora wandered in this morning, dressed to the nines in head-to-toe spring green and violet. The groomswoman looks like the embodiment of a wildflower.
“How do I look?” she says, twirling her swishy green skirt and looking at Callum.
“Like springtime,” Callum rasps.
Flora giggles. “Well, it is a May wedding, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he says. I look from Callum to Flora and back again to my best friend and notice something passing between them that I have never seen before.
At least, I definitely see it on Callum’s end. As much as I love my best friend, I’m rooting for Flora to continue to be her own person. She’s bound for great things, and I don’t want anything standing in her way, least of all a relationship that would only keep her at the palace.
Feeling the need to break the tension, Torben clears his throat. “Did you ever think you’d have eight people in your wedding party, Sigurd?”
“I never thought I’d have a wedding, period,” I reply. “Have you checked on Stasi? How’s she doing?”
“She’s perfect. Kala and Hailey are taking good care of her,” Flora says, freshening her makeup in one of the many mirrors along the tent’s wall.
“And who does that leave in the party?” Torben asks.
“Suzanna and Jakob. I haven’t met them yet,” Flora says.
Indeed, Stasi’s housemates were absent from the rehearsal dinner, so we’ll all meet them for the first time today. Rumor has it Suzanna is quite flighty, and Jakob had to be tracked down in Mirror Lake, of all places. Strange coincidence, that.
“It’s time.” This declaration comes from Uther, who has peeked his head into the tent.
There’s a scramble of activity, and minutes later, the groom’s party and I are positioned under an arbor in the woods. Set deep in the North Bay Forest in late May, the woods are a riot of spring blossoms. It’s perfect.
The bride’s attendants make their way toward the arbor in a line. First, Hailey, then Kala, then a woman with a dark bob cut and a slash of red lips. That would be Suzanna. A tall man with haunted eyes who looks like he’d rather be elsewhere brings up the rear. I suppose that would be Jakob. He looks like how I felt about weddings nine months ago.
In fact… It’s pretty strange…this Jakob fellow also bears a strong resemblance to me physically. He has the same color eyes as all the Haart boys and the same gait as Etienne. And Torben’s shoulders. And, Father’s chin.
I chalk it up to a bizarre coincidence. All of us Gravenlandians are related to each other if you trace the bloodlines back far enough. Some of us more than others if you go back even further to the times of the old kings and queens.
I hear the faintest whispering behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see Flora looking past me. She’s staring at someone.
When I trace her gaze, she appears to be staring at Jakob. That’s odd.
The bridal march begins, then, reminding me why I’m here.
My bride takes my breath away in a long, glittering, blush pink gown adorned with pale green lace resembling vines. The green in her dress matches the vine crown in her mass of braided red hair, bursting with delicate blossoms. She looks like a forest princess, and my heart grows ten sizes. A wide satin sash is cinched under her swollen breasts, emphasizing her round belly.
The gasps and swoons disappear into the ether as my bride floats toward me, a healthy blush on her cheeks.
My palms drip with sweat, and my chin trembles. Perhaps Sable left me with enough of a beard that no one will notice I’m a whisper away from crying.
