Flannery and Callum are getting married.
“There’s nothing at all wrong with him—besides, everyone knows you two want each other. Will you stop slouching like that? We’ll never get it fit,” Brigit says as Flannery stands in her tent, staring at herself in a mirror. Flannery is wearing a wedding gown, a big, sparkly sort of thing that looks like a high school prom dress on steroids. Other Traveller girls hover around Flannery, offering suggestions as to how she should wear her hair, or who among them should be her bridesmaids. They brag about the dresses they own, how they’re sparkly but “not so much that it’ll overwhelm yours, Flannery.”
Flannery doesn’t seem to care. Not about them, or the dress, or the engagement, or anything. She won’t make eye contact with me, instead staring at her own reflection as if she loathes it. I pull my knees up on the loveseat, the same place I sat when I first arrived, and watch, mesmerized, horrified, next to the pile of her regular clothes that have been discarded in lieu of the gown. She’s wearing the red heels, standing stiff-legged in them.
“Is Sal really gonna be able to take it in fast enough? It’s just that it’s about four sizes too big in the waist. Though it fits just right up top—god, Flannery, when did you grow these tits?”
“I wonder what Callum’s doing right now.”
“Probably getting drunk. All grooms get drunk before the wedding.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to switch and marry Ardan? I saw him naked once….”
“I hope he cleans his house a little. I wouldn’t want to spend my wedding night in Callum’s place as is.”
Flannery’s hair looks stupid in the weird updo one of the girls is tying it into. I want to say something, but I don’t. Besides, this’ll make it easier. If she has to stay with Callum tonight, I’ll be able to run for it since Flannery won’t be guarding me. Just as I’m thinking this, Flannery finds my eyes; she doesn’t say anything before looking away. I reach across the loveseat and slowly, carefully pull Flannery’s knife and Wallace’s key from her discarded jeans’ pocket. It takes me only seconds to tuck them into the back of my bra strap. It takes me even less time than that to be certain that if I need to use the knife—against a werewolf or a human—I will.
Kai and I first heard the story of Emperor Nero from his third violin teacher. He went through them quickly, getting a new one each time he surpassed the previous’s skill. Kai was ambivalent, but I loved the story. A man, standing amid flames, playing the violin. Fearless, so enamored with his music that he didn’t care about the danger.
Of course, then we were told that some suspect he set the fire. He let Rome burn so he could tear down the charred shells of homes to build a new palace. Nero lit the stadium where they held chariot races on fire first, but the rest of Rome was quick to follow. The fire burned for days. I wondered if Nero played the violin the entire time. I wondered if he played it because he didn’t care, of if he didn’t set the fire and played it because it was the only thing that kept him from going mad, watching his empire become ash.
Kai didn’t wonder anything like that. To him, it was just a story—and a likely untrue one at that. He got hung up on the fact that violins weren’t even around in ancient Rome, so Nero couldn’t have played one. It was a detail that didn’t matter much to me, so while Kai practiced and I sat in Grandma Dalia’s mauve recliner, I thought about Nero. I thought about him as a villain, as a hero, but mostly as a man.
Maybe all you can do, when your world is burning, is hold on to the thing you love the most.
The bonfire is huge, the crowd feasting on fresh bread and a few whole chickens. Flannery and Callum sit in throne-like chairs a few dozen yards from the bonfire, where people run up to give them gifts and advice, or to make lewd jokes to Callum. His face looks as contorted and uncomfortable as hers; they clasp hands tightly, as if they’re afraid to let go. Callum is wearing a dress shirt, though the collar buttons are missing and he has the sleeves rolled up, and I have to admit, Flannery looks beautiful. Awkward, but beautiful.
Brigit conducts the ceremony, speaking in Shelta, asking Flannery to repeat after her. She’s misty-eyed, happy, as if she doesn’t notice that her daughter appears to be dying a slow, chiffon-induced death. They exchange simple silver rings, and then Brigit binds Flannery’s and Callum’s hands with bits of scarf and declares their hearts and minds tied together like their wrists. And then it comes time to kiss, and Callum leans toward Flannery—
She flinches, pulls back, and a ripple of dissatisfaction goes through the crowd. Callum watches Flannery for a moment, then leans forward and whispers something to her—not something sweet or poetic, I can tell by the lines of his face. He pulls back and I see him tap her hand with his thumb, counting down. One. Two.
They kiss on “three,” short and quick, but it’s enough that the crowd cheers, stomps their feet, and throws artificial flower petals in the air. Brigit instructs the couple to sit back down and urges the musicians—a handful of guitar players—to play something snappy. Couples dance, liquor drinks are poured, and the revelry begins. I hang toward the back of the crowd, by Ardan and Declan, who are placing bets on how long it’ll be before Flannery gives Callum a black eye. I consider getting in on the wager.
If it weren’t for the fact that the bride and groom look utterly miserable, the wedding would be pretty amazing—the sort of homegrown thing that those brides on the reality shows my classmates watched are always trying to emulate. The guests look happy and well-fed, the music hardly stops, and the sky above is clear and diamond-studded. A few hours in and the liquor is still flowing, encouraging the frenzy. Callum waves for someone to bring him a large cup of beer. Flannery eyes him, shakes her head, then slumps down in her chair. Her eyes narrow, as if she’s thinking very hard. She exhales, looks at me as if she wants to say something, and then—
“Hey, boys?” she calls across the fire to the musicians. “How about ‘Winter’s Keep’?”
I see Callum’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks at me and, for a moment, I think he’s going to call out for them to stop. But the Flannery somehow pulls his eyes to her, and there’s a silent conversation between them. Callum sits back in his chair as the musicians begin to play.
Come along, my brothers,
stay your drink and calm your words.
It’s comin’ on the season,
bring the ice and go the birds.
And with it comes a lady,
from the great wood, strong and bright.
She tames the fangs and fur and claw,
we honor her, tonight.
She lives among the selchs and snow,
she knows her magic well.
She’ll call the very best to her,
The rest she’ll send to hell.
So climb into your beds, my friends,
But think before you sleep, of
the beauty and the terror
of the Lady Winter’s Keep.
I inhale, close my eyes, and replay the words in my head over and over until they’re memorized.