Joe checked his pocket watch as he approached Cassie's chamber . . . for the fourth time.

It currently said eight o'clock on its face. It had said a quarter past midnight when he stopped by the night before and six on the dot when he checked first thing in the morning. Then at a quarter past seven, Alexander was alone with Cassie's dress and claimed she was in the washroom. He went on to describe Cassie's schedule full of odds and ends—a hot bath and a hot shower, trims, waxes, nails, a full-body massage, last-minute dress alterations, hairdressing, and herbal remedies for at least a dozen beauty ailments.

Joe realized there was something very peculiar going on. Cassie was never this hard to find. And he didn't care if she was in her undergarments or in the wedding dress he wasn't supposed to see yet.

They had to talk.

And until they did, Joe was wound up tighter than his timepiece. He pounded on her chamber door once more. He could hear buzzing—from wings, from movement, and from the whispers.

Madam Prideux, Cassie's overprotective Head Attendant, cracked the door open. "Yes? May I help you, Mr. MacRae?"

"I need to speak to her."

Madam Prideux checked over her shoulder and then pointed her glare back at Joe. "I'm sorry. The princess is indisposed at the moment. You'll see her at the wedding."

As the door was being closed, Joe jammed his foot by the frame to stop it.

"Joe? Is that you?" he heard from the other side of the door.

Hearing Cassie's voice was such a relief. She sounded drowsy and a little nervous. That was understandable under the circumstances. Still, he wished he could see her face.

"Yes!" he shouted while giving his physical barrier the evil eye. "Are you all right? I've been looking for you all morning."

"I'm fine. Busy, but well."

"Are you. . ." He tried to come up with the best way to condense the multitude of questions flying through his mind. "Looking forward to the wedding?"

"Yes, of course," Cassie replied without any hesitation.

He smiled, satisfied. "No reason. Just checking."

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. MacRae?" Madam Prideux clucked with her peaked eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline.

"No, that's all."

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Chris was afflicted with more than just heartache when he awoke in the morning. It was headache, stomachache, body ache, and dizziness. If he felt any worse, he would have begged for death.

I am never drinking again!

Chris peeled his eyes apart at the knock on his door. He didn't intend to answer it. But the assailant with head-jarring persistence wasn't giving up so easily.

Chris had to make the noise stop. He rose to his unsteady feet, hoping whoever was there had a really good reason for disturbing him.

The knocker was absent, but a delivery was hanging on a coat rack outside his room. There was a garment bag and a black case on the floor next to it. When he went to grab them, he almost tripped over a glass of cloudy white liquid. There was a note underneath it.

Here is a tonic for the pain. You'll need it. ~Vela

Chris may have chuckled if his stomach wasn't flipping. He plopped the case and garment bag on a chair by the fireplace. It was the first time he realized he was in a different location. His new room was more spacious and appeared to be in the front corner of the building. It had one curtained bay window and there were old painted portraits of fairies hanging on the wall—creepy but tolerable.

Unable to recall how he managed to pull off a room change in a full house, he returned to the hall to retrieve the tonic and get a better idea of where he was. His door now said, "15, south." He was behind the spiral staircase and two doors away from Cassie's old room. He figured Vela must have moved him. Chris remembered the gist of the conversation he had with her but couldn't remember how his night had ended. He couldn't have gotten into too much trouble, beyond intoxication. He wasn't scratched or bruised, most of his money was still in his pocket, and thanks be to Vela, he was alone.

Chris suddenly wasn't concerned about the details. A surge of nausea had him crawling to the washroom.

He left nothing inside.

Then his priority became the tonic. It could have been unpalatable, counterproductive, or toxic even, but any possible side effect would have been preferable to what he was feeling. So he guzzled down the whole glass.

He collapsed back on his bed. Before he closed his eyes, he rummaged for his pocket watch. Five after nine.

Plenty of time. . .

Chris set the watch on the nightstand, pulled up the covers, and went back to sleep.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

It was only twenty after ten o'clock.

Cassie was exhausted already. She had been since the day began and it was hard to peg exactly when that was. That's because she never went to sleep. There was no time.

There were currently half a dozen fairies in her chamber. They were filing in and out with gifts, accessories to select, agendas, updates, comments, and messages requiring immediate responses.

After a minute of harsh inquiry, Madam Prideux finally allowed a young page-fairy inside the room. He bowed with the grace of a dancer. "Princess Cassiopeia. You have received a letter from Dr. Leo Labelle. It's stamped as urgent. It requires your signature."

Cassie had her arms in a "T" while Alexander was readjusting her sleeves for the third time. "Alexander, can I have a moment?"

There was sweat on his brow and his eyes were bulging behind the bifocals. But he reluctantly complied. He stepped out for some air.

Cassie lowered her arms, grateful for the respite. The scar on her shoulder had been throbbing for hours. She rolled around her shoulder as much as she could without ruining Alexander's progress. Then she signed for the letter and opened the wax seal.

My Dearest Niece,

I send to you my deepest regrets for being unable to attend your wedding. Élodie has fallen very ill again and needs constant care. I am afraid I cannot leave her side until her condition stabilizes.

I also want to inform you that I have temporarily joined Dr. Muriel Renard's medical practice on Middletown Boulevard, number six. I am staying in the suite above the clinic. I hope you and your husband will have a chance to visit after the wedding. There are many things you should know about our family and we must set aside the time to discuss. Furthermore, I have recovered an heirloom from the Labelle estate that I wish for you to have.

Again, I can't emphasize enough how greatly saddened I am that I will not be able to see you on this momentous day. Your father would be very proud.

With Much Love,

Dr. Leo Labelle

Cassie returned the letter to the envelope. Disheartened by the news, she tossed the letter toward her bed and never saw where it landed.

And once it was out of sight, it was out of mind.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Scott MacRae's pocket watch read a quarter after eleven. He snapped it shut and set it back down on his desk.

"Come in," he called out in response to a knock.

The new head of the Legion of Liberty stepped inside his office. General Kepler was the fifth appointee in four years.

Scott ran a hand through the back of his hair and then rubbed his aching temples. He could tell from the general's glum expression that he wasn't visiting to bestow his congratulations. "What can I do for you, general?"

"There's a small problem. . . ."

Scott lifted the mess of invoices, bills, and bank statements he had in front of him. He thumped the edges on his desk to form a neat pile. "What constitutes a small problem?"

"Well . . . many of our legionnaires are striking until they get the pay increase they were promised."

Scott began flipping through the pages to calm himself. Without looking up, he asked, "How many remain?"

The general's gaze dropped to the floor.

"I asked you how many!"

Kepler lifted his chin, though he failed to meet Scott's eye. "One hundred, sir."

"One hundred. . ." Scott repeated in disbelief. "I told you to tell them that negotiations would resume after the wedding."

"I did just that. Unfortunately, they—"

Scott put his hand up. "Find them. Knock on their doors, search the taverns, check the forest. Do whatever you have to do. But return them to their posts even if you have to drag them there. The security of the entire city is at stake!"

Kepler nodded once and then turned to leave. As the door closed behind him, Scott flung his pile of papers across the room.

What does it even matter anymore?

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Chris woke up with a gasp for air. He had never slept so soundly before. That realization was a cause for panic.

He fumbled for his pocket watch on the nightstand. 11:45! Shit.

The wedding was at two o'clock. The walk alone would take about two hours. Chris wasn't washed, dressed, or even fully awake yet.

Chris sat up. He rubbed a hand over his face and eyes, hoping his vision would clear. He felt weak and groggy and had dull ache in his head, but he wasn't going to complain. It was a vast improvement.

He hauled his sluggish body out of bed and went to the washroom. He soon realized that becoming "wedding appropriate" would require more time and energy than he had. Chris did the best he could but refrained from shaving. His razor was at the bottom of his fairy pack anyway.

In the mirror above the washbasin, he analyzed the extent of hair growth. It doesn't look that bad. And besides, who am I trying to impress?

Chris correctly assumed his wedding attire was in the garment bag he dragged into his room earlier. His brother or father must have sent it over. He put on the frilly white dress-shirt, the black cape-like cloak, the oddly fitting black trousers, and the matching shiny shoes. And Chris couldn't hold in the laugh.

Hello, Count Dracula!

He attached his father's former sword to his belt—he didn't go anywhere without it—and was ready to walk out, only a couple of minutes behind schedule. As he opened the door, the black case that came with the garment bag caught his eye. Curious, he went over to open it.

"A shaving kit," he mumbled to himself as he picked up the long blade. "Very subtle, Dad."

He sighed and brought the old-fashioned razor and the cream that came with it to the washroom.

He wet his face. Got set up. Went to work. And his attempt to be quick and efficient backfired. He nicked the right side of his Adam's apple. "Bloodshed . . . I can already tell this is going to be a great day."

He grabbed for a towel. He just avoided getting blood on his high white collar.

Once that crisis was managed, he took the room key from the mantle and rushed out the door. Getting to the North End in time for the wedding would now require some jogging.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Cassie arrived at the chapel at precisely 1:45, as planned. Her many attendants escorted her to a cluttered supply room in the back corner of the chapel. Under Alexander's and Madam Prideux's direction, the small fleet of fairies straightened out her long train and fussed over every stray hair, and every bead and crystal.

Although very appreciative, Cassie cleared her throat to get everyone's attention. "Thank you for your assistance. You took much of the stress out of the day." Her voice shook as she glanced down at the bandage on her hand, one she had to wear for a couple more weeks. No matter what anyone did, at this wedding or her last dreadful attempt—the one where she almost lost everything, her life included—she couldn't sustain the façade and everyone was bound to notice. "Now I am here, ready, and on schedule. Your work is done, so please find your seats. I look forward to seeing you at the wedding and reception."

Once Cassie was alone, she couldn't exactly sit, lean, or even move very much. The furniture was splintered. The walls were dusty. The wallpaper was peeling. What would Alexander say if there was a wrinkle or a smear of dirt on her dress? Or worse yet, a tear, like on the last dress she ruined!

Closing her eyes was her only means of escape.

Her racing thoughts soon became very loud. Agony. Torment. Death. Despair. She tried to quiet them by chanting, I can do this . . . I can do this . . . I can do this.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

From the altar, Joe watched as the last of their guests took their seats. He glanced at his father and then at Apus. He pulled out his pocket watch.

1:57.

"Where is he?" Joe whispered in his father's ear.

"Are you sure Chris said yes?" Scott asked. "When I talked to him a few days ago, he sounded . . . unsure."

"He said he was coming."

Scott shrugged.

"He's usually more punctual than this," Joe added. "If he didn't intend be here, he should have just—"

Apus fluttered over. "Are we ready to start?"

Joe nodded.

Scott winced. "Let's give him a few more minutes."

Joe lifted his eyes to the heavens. If he was coming, he'd be here already.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Chris checked his pocket watch. 1:58. He had made it there in good time. Now he was pacing the graveyard that surrounded the back of the chapel. Truth be told, he was hiding and had been for about ten minutes.

He knew he had agreed to come. His father and brother were expecting him there many minutes ago. Being there for his brother on the day of his wedding would be the right thing to do.

Chris couldn't figure out why the "right" thing felt so damn wrong. It wasn't just about the girl. Or out of respect for his brother. It was like Cassie was telling him to stay away—or someone was—but he couldn't settle on who or an exact reason why. And neither could they, whoever it was.

It could have been instinct. Don't be an idiot!

The chapel was just a stone's throw away, but his feet refused to move in that direction.

The only thing he could focus on was the princess. Where is she right now? Will she go through with it?

Chris wondered if she would be more or less likely to say I do if he was standing there between his brother and father.

Maybe she won't. . .

The scenario seemed all wrong for her. He always pictured her getting married on a beach somewhere, a little before sunset, in a simple, lightweight white dress, something that would actually move in a light breeze.

Then, he tried to imagine her "Pyxian Princess" wedding dress. The layers of frill and decoration would probably complement the "Count Dracula" ensemble a little too convincingly. It probably weighed more than she did!

Why did that thought suddenly make him so angry?

Then, something else caught Chris's darting attention. He trudged over to the grave of Prince Canis Major. Cassie's brother. The statue looked just like him. It was beautiful. White marble. Like a Roman god. Among wraiths, gargoyles, and dark demons, it stood out like a single star in a black sky.

Chris barely knew him. They were enemies from every angle, and by every definition. Still, Canis's death was difficult to grapple with. Cassie had tried to reason with her brother. She saw hope. She was probably the only fairy capable of swaying him. The prince cared for her at one point. He must have, because he protected her when he had many reasons not to. He wasn't as thoroughly evil as he let on.

And Andromeda. . .

If Cassie had persuaded her half-brother to switch sides, he might have been the key to bringing Andromeda down. Instead, she was still out there somewhere.

Gone but definitely not forgotten.

If Andromeda ever found out about her daughter's wedding, she might take it personally that she never received an invitation.

This wasn't the first time Chris feared his brother's wedding would be the perfect day for her to stage a coup. Unless Scott had bolstered security overnight, which now Chris regretted not mentioning, Andromeda could blast right through the entrance to Pyxis, practically unhindered. She wouldn't even need that large of an army.

And what would she find once she made it through?

Distinguished MacRae supporters from all over the world situated in the same place at the same time.

Chris swiveled toward the chapel when he heard the organ begin to play.

His heart fell.

But then it leapt right back into his chest. He heard one noise, that almost immediately multiplied beyond his ability to quantify.

Are there swords clashing?

The noise grew steadily louder. Closer. It was a constant ringing. And it was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of pain and suffering. It drowned out the music from the chapel.

Chris crouched behind Canis Major's grave. Once Chris had the nerve, he peeked up at Royal Way.

He scanned for colors, hoping to see green—the color of the Legion of Liberty uniform. He did see green, but it was barely discernable in the sea of red, blue, gray, and bright orange—the color of fire. Upon closer inspection, the Legion of Liberty soldiers were moving at the front of an immeasurably long line, stakes impaling their lifeless bodies.

God, I hate being right all the time. . . .