"We need to get back."
Her eyes snap open. The humor drains from her face. Reality lands on her like a sandbag. "Oh god. The ceremony. I tackled Mark into a fountain in front of two hundred people. My sister isgoing to murder me. My mother is going to murder me first, and then my sister is going to murder whatever's left, and then my Aunt Delphine is going to write a strongly worded letter to the remains."
"Your sister's wedding wards are intact because you acted."
"My sister's wedding is a circus because I body-checked my ex-boyfriend into three feet of decorative water during the processional."
"The binding runes on the altar would have shattered. The magical contract would have been void. The marriage wouldn't have held."
She goes still. Her fingers tighten on the jacket lapels. "You saw the dagger?"
"Glowing. Serrated. Inscribed with dissolution sigils along the blade. Standard black-market ward-breaker. Another thirty seconds and he would have severed the primary anchor rune." I pause. "You saved the wedding, Magnolia."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Okay. Let's go fix this."
I offer my arm. She hooks her hand into the crook of my elbow, her broken heel dangling from her other fist. We walk back up the gravel path. Around the corner of the clubhouse. Across the gouged lawn, following my own footprints back toward the ceremony.
The scene has devolved.
Guests stand in clusters, buzzing. Several elderly relatives grip each other's arms. A child cries somewhere in the third row. The string quartet has abandoned their instruments entirely and joined the general milling chaos. The bride awaits at the altar in her white gown, both hands pressed flat against her cheeks. The groom holds her elbow. The officiant clutches his ceremonial scroll.
Magnolia's mother has positioned herself at the aisle, arms crossed, face reddening.
I walk directly toward her.
She does not move.
I do not slow down.
At the last possible second, she steps aside. One sharp lateral movement, like a matador who just realized the bull outweighs her by six hundred pounds.
I guide Magnolia to the front row. She sits. The jacket pools around her on the white folding chair. I straighten. Turn.
Two hundred faces stare back at me.
I roll my shirtsleeves to my elbows. Slowly. The scars on my forearms catch the afternoon light. Thick ropes of white tissue across green skin. Tally marks from a decade of contracts completed. Promises kept.
I scan the crowd. Left to right. Row by row. I hold each gaze I catch for exactly one second. Not threatening. Not pleading. Simply holding. Simply making it understood that this ceremony will resume. That these people will sit down. That this wedding will happen. That the alternative to sitting down is standing up, and the alternative to standing up is dealing with me.
The cellist sits first.
Then the grandmother in row six.
Then a cascade. Chair legs scraping grass. Fabric rustling. Throats clearing. A ripple of compliance spreading from front to back like dominoes falling in reverse.
Twelve seconds.
Everyone sits.
The officiant's scroll unrolls in his trembling hands. He clears his throat. Looks at the bride. Looks at the groom. Looks at me.
I nod.
"Dearly beloved," he begins.
The ceremony finishes without incident.
