“You just keep on promising that, all right?” she gritted through her teeth.
They reached the cathedral sooner than Nigel would have liked. It wasn’t crowded out on the street in front. All the guests were tucked away inside for the service, and only the bride and groom’s magnificent getaway vehicle, a glamorous limousine, waited. Its chauffer sat on alert at the wheel, ready to carry the happy couple off to their celebration at The King’s Crown.
“That’s odd,” Luna said suddenly, breaking the silence between them.
“What?” Nigel inquired.
She pointed up the enormous front steps to the cathedral doors. One door was partially open, and someone seemed to be caught in the act of rushing out, a look of wild frenzy on his proud face. “Isn’t that the Duke of Woolfwood?”
Frowning, Nigel looked again. He vaguely recognized the prominent proboscis featured on that consternated visage. Where had he seen that man before? He couldn’t recall. Nigel wasn’t very good with faces; people simply didn’t interest him all that much. “Well, it is his wedding, isn’t it?” he offered by way of response.
“Of course.” Luna tilted her head slightly. “Which is why he ought to be standing at the altar with his bride even now.” She craned her head, looking back over her shoulder to catch a glimpse at the Old Bally Clocktower. Sure enough, the hands pointed to five minutes past one. “Something’s wrong.”
With those words, she let go of Nigel’s arm and hastened ahead of him up the cathedral steps. Nigel pursued her, wanting to protest yet again that there was no need for anyrush, but he suspected it wouldn’t do much good. By the time he achieved the top of the steps, Luna was circling the young duke, studying him closely. Then she turned to the door, where a passel of groomsmen—all wearing Nigel’s boutonnieres—trailed after the groom. Their expressions varied: amusement, concern, worry, and irritation. No two faces alike, despite their uniform tuxedos and cravats.
“Is he running away?” Nigel asked, crossing his arms over his green apron front.
Luna frowned. “Not likely. By all accounts, the duke is crazy about Miss Lambert.”
Or at least, about her millions,Nigel thought, but tactfully did not say out loud. “Can you squeeze inside?” he suggested instead.
It required some ducking and weaving to get around the groomsmen. Easier said than done, but Luna managed to get through, and Nigel followed after into the narthex. This was quite a stunning space, all old stone masonry carved with holy symbols of various gods and saints and big stained glasswindows. But despite the holiness of the setting, mayhem dominated the scene. Everywhere Nigel looked there seemed to be bridesmaids run amuck—some weeping, some scolding and pointing at each other, one literally in the act of beating a groomsman over the head with her bouquet. How many bridesmaids did one bride require to get herself properly married? And beyond these stood the formidable Mrs. Lambert, resplendent in a shimmering silver gown, her face quite red with the effort of scolding her mousy little husband, whose eyes were rolled so far back in his head, Nigel wondered if they were stuck that way permanently, not merely the result of time-severance.
No matter where one looked, there was no sign to be had of any bride.
Luna made her way through the throng, ducking around bridesmaids. “Maybe the nave?” she said.
Nigel followed her through another set of doors to where the wedding guests were gathered, all captured in a moment of uncertainty. Some checked wrist watches, many twisted in the pews to look back over their shoulders, and all wore expressions of mingled uncertainty, boredom, and impatience.
Nigel lingered at the end of the aisle, watching Luna as she hastened toward the altar. The pillars and pews were all festooned in Arcane Bouquet blossoms, which the two of them had worked hard all morning to put up. The effect was quite good.Not that this magnificent chamber needed extra decoration, what with the gilded pillars and the painted ceiling and the massive organ which dominated the entire back wall.
“No sign of her here, either,” Luna declared, her voice echoing faintly in the vaulted space. She turned to Nigel, and the light pouring through one stained glass window illuminated her worried face. She looked quite fetching in her work apron and that glorious bouquet and her hair all a-tumble. “Where could she be?”
Nigel stuck his hands into his front apron pockets and cleared his throat again. “Perhaps the dressing room.”
Luna shook her head. “Everyone would think to look there first.”
“The washroom?”
“Also obvious.” Chewing her lip, Luna marched back up the aisle, searching the faces of the frozen guests as she came, as though seeking inspiration. She passed by Nigel and returned to the narthex, where she stood a moment with one hand on her hip, foot tapping. Nigel followed her, wondering if he might suggest simply leaving the bouquet in the hands of one of the many bridesmaids and getting out of here. But his eye was caught suddenly by another face which he found unexpectedly familiar.
“Do we know that fellow?” he asked, pointing out a young man who seemed to be slipping out of the narthex into a side passage, looking back over his shoulder.
“Oh, Green Mother!” Luna gasped in the same tone with which someone else might utter a curse. “That’s Tom Doorhandler!”
Nigel frowned. “Isn’t he that can opener chap?”
Not bothering to answer, Luna marched over to the young man. He had a distinctlysneakylook about him. Not quite the tiptoeing, shoulder-hunching, mustache-twirling villain, but there was definitely something sneakish in his manner. For one thing, he wasn’t dressed in wedding-appropriate garments. In fact, he was kind of shabby. This shabbiness was offset by a large, brawny figure, however, and though no expert on male beauty, Nigel suspected he was the sort of specimen women deemed attractive.
Luna moved to stand directly in front of the man, folding her arms as she looked him over. “What exactly are you up to, Tom?” she muttered.
“Not a favorite of yours, Miss Talbot?” Nigel asked.
“Not at all! He’s a fortune-hunting squib.”
“Strong words.”
“Strong feelings.”
