Page 58 of Every Eligible Man

Then the ferrets.

Susan and Gerald emerge from behind a hay bale wearing matching crimson capes, tiny, regal, absolutely ridiculous. They're supposed to be additional ring bearers, but I've given up on them actually performing that function.

Sure enough, they make it halfway down the aisle before Gerald spots something shiny on a duchess's hand and launches himself at her fingers.

"Gerald, no," Wreck hisses from the altar.

Gerald does not care about wedding protocol. Gerald has never cared about wedding protocol.

The duchess shrieks. Guards move to intervene. Susan, loyal partner that she is, provides covering fire by doing an aggressive war dance that terrifies everyone within a five-foot radius.

Eventually, Gerald is retrieved, new ring clutched triumphantly in his tiny paws, and deposited at Wreck's feet.

"That's not one of the wedding rings," Wreck says.

Gerald chitters proudly.

"I know it's prettier. That's not the point."

The congregation has not recovered. They will not recover. This is their life now.

Finally, the music shifts.

My cue.

I step into the doorway of the Great Hall, and every head turns.

Three hundred nobles, ambassadors, and various important people who had to be invited for political reasons stare at me with expressions ranging from scandalized to fascinated to deeply concerned about the future of the monarchy.

I don't care about any of them.

I only care about the three men at the altar.

Ash stands in the center, massive and imposing in a midnight-blue doublet that matches his eyes. His expression is stoic, controlled, but I can see his hands flexing at his sides. Impatient. Ready.

Slade is on his left, emerald green suit perfectly tailored, hair artfully disheveled, smile sharp enough to cut glass. Bastard honks approvingly at my approach.

Wreck is on the right, crimson doublet already slightly askew because he cannot exist in formal clothing without immediately destroying it. Susan and Gerald have climbed up to his shoulders, forming a ferret honor guard. His grin could power the sun.

Behind them, perched on the altar like a feathered gargoyle of suffering, One-Eye surveys the scene with his one good eye.

"I can't believe I'm officiating this," he says.

"You're not officiating," Slade reminds him. "Father Bartholomew is officiating. You're just... present."

"My presence is a mistake."

Father Bartholomew stands at the altar, looking like a man who has questioned every life choice that led him to this moment. He's the same priest who read the cock-description proclamation. He volunteered for this duty specifically because, in his words, "It cannot possibly be worse than that."

He was wrong.

I walk down the aisle slowly, savoring every step. The nobles whisper as I pass. I catch fragments:

"Three husbands."

"Former farmhands."

"Did you hear about the carriage."