“I see,” he said. “You believe Miss Fields is in genuine peril.”
“We do.”
He nodded gravely.
“That is problematic. You see, young man, there is the matter of confidentiality. If a young woman comes to me and asks for the protection of the Church, I can hardly reveal the details of her situation with anyone else.”
“I understand that. But, Father, she’s in deeper than she realizes. If she intends to go ahead with the wedding, somebody might be inclined to show up and finish Carris Lethway off out of petty spite.”
Father Wickens sighed.
“The world is indeed peopled with dark-hearted villains. You believe this to be a real possibility?”
“Father, I’ll be straight with you. I don’t know who got out of that fire. They might all be dead for all I know. But if Japeth Stricken survived, and Carris Lethway’s father lived, then there’s a good chance Stricken is out for blood. That’s a given. And I couldn’t think of a better way for him to get it than show up at a Lethway wedding.”
“This is deeply troubling.”
“Deeply. And it gets worse. The men who were behind the kidnapping-they might not be done, either. Look. Even if you can’t tell us where Tamar is. Even if you can’t admit you even know her, can’t you try to talk her out of this?”
“Hypothetically, let us assume I have already tried just that. Hypothetically, I urged her to take her intended and flee the city before the forces arrayed against her could regroup.”
“And, speaking hypothetically, what did she say?”
“It bordered dangerously near a cardinal sin,” said the old priest, behind the ghost of a grin. “As well as being anatomically unlikely for a man of my age.”
Darla sighed and put her hand on mine.
“There’s no talking her out of it, hon,” she said.
“No. No, I suppose there isn’t.” I met the old priest’s eyes. “I know you can’t tell us anything specific. But speaking purely in general terms, how does a couple go about getting married beneath the Broken Bell anyway?”
Father Wickens pondered that.
“General terms only, Father. This has nothing to do with any headstrong young women. I merely seek to educate myself in the finer points of husbandry.”
“Well,” said the priest. “The couple in question needs to arrive here early that morning. Before the sun is fully risen. Neither man nor wife may cast a shadow outdoors, on that day.”
“Get here with the roosters,” I said. “Go on.”
“The bride to be is escorted to the Meditation Hall, where she may pray, dress and prepare herself for the ceremony.”
Darla nodded. “Is she alone during that time?”
“She may take a single bridesmaid with her into the Hall. No more.”
“The husband. Is he locked away too? In a room without windows or ventilation shafts?”
Darla kicked my shin under the table.
“The grooms are taken, collectively, to the Fellowship Rotunda. Libations are served, and the groomsmen may gather there as well.”
Darla sniffed and wrinkled her nose.
“How lovely.”
“Other priests may conduct themselves differently, Miss, but I do not tolerate the Rotunda being used as a beerhall,” said Father Wickens. “Which may, I confess, contribute to the reduced number of marriages over which I preside. But I insist on dignity.”
“Which is why Carris and Tamar came to you,” said Darla.
The old man dipped his head in an old-fashioned bow.
There was a lot more of the same. Shoes had to be placed on feet at a certain hour, and not before. Flowers of specific colors were affixed to veils and lapels in this fashion, but not before certain songs were sung. Guests had to arrive in batches of ten, wines had to stay on the north ends of certain rooms. There were even restrictions on the partings of hair and the wearing of copper buttons.
And when the big moment arrived and the Broken Bell was struck, the grooms had to be holding the hands of their new brides, he facing east and she facing west, and they were to kiss just as the last echoes of the Bell faded.
When the Father ran out of ifs and buts, I stood and stretched my legs.
“Thanks, Father. Looks like all we have to do is show up and keep our eyes open for trouble.”
The Father frowned.
“Um. Are you, dear, a bridesmaid?”
“No.”
“And you, sir? A groomsman?”
“If I say yes, will that get me inside?”
The Father shook his head. “You could come as guests, of course. But that will only place you in the presence of the bride and groom near the end of the day.”
“Not good enough, Father. The people I’m worried about won’t stand in line patiently waiting their turn.”
“We have armed men among us, you know. I’ll see that they are in place-discreetly, of course.”
“That might be enough, and it might not be.”
I’d just ridden a warhorse into a church. I’d done that without much thought, and with only the faintest inkling of dread.
But what I was thinking now-that, I realized, that was dangerous.
I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry.
“Oh, don’t look so pale, hon,” said Darla. “Father. Tamar is in danger. Her fiance too. What Mr. Markhat is struggling to ask is this-what if we entered the premises, that day, under the pretense of getting married ourselves? Wouldn’t that put me with Tamar, and him with Carris, all day, right up until the last moment?”
The Father bit his lip.
“It would. And if you simply left the cathedral before you spoke the vows, you would be neither married nor disruptive of the ceremony.” He shrugged and frowned. “I do not love suggesting such a thing, but-yes. Yes, I would allow it.”
“It’s settled then.” I turned to Darla and winked. “Dear, we’re getting hitched.”
She smiled and clutched my arm.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
There was little chance to talk when we left Wherthmore. Darla held tight and laughed a couple of times, but that was all the conversation we could muster above the clopping of hooves and the sway of the ride.
For which I was thankful in no small measure.
Planning a wedding, even a sham wedding designed to keep Tamar and groom alive through their very real vows, was a danger all its own.
Knowing that Darla knew I musing upon that very fact didn’t help. The empty streets and the broken, looted storefronts and scurrying ne’er-do-wells didn’t help set a festive mood, either.
War was coming. Chaos was loosed. Fires smoldered, trailing the horizon with fans of black smoke.
And yet Tamar Fields was going through with her wedding, come war, Hell or wand-wavers.
Foolish? Brave? Both?
I couldn’t say.
And I knew that my failure to do so was a subtle knife twisting in Darla’s heart.
I spurred the horse and urged her on, though in truth I had little idea where exactly I was heading. I needed to know how Evis was faring. I needed more rounds for the hand-cannon. I needed to know if Pratt had survived, if Lethway lived, if Japeth Stricken had cheated death again, and was lurking in the shadows eager to exact a twice- thwarted vengeance.
