“Get here with the roosters,” I said. “Go on.”

“The bride to be is escorted to the Meditation Hall, where she may pray, dress and prepare herself for the ceremony.”

Darla nodded. “Is she alone during that time?”

“She may take a single bridesmaid with her into the Hall. No more.”

“The husband. Is he locked away too? In a room without windows or ventilation shafts?”

Darla kicked my shin under the table.

“The grooms are taken, collectively, to the Fellowship Rotunda. Libations are served, and the groomsmen may gather there as well.”

Darla sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

“How lovely.”

“Other priests may conduct themselves differently, Miss, but I do not tolerate the Rotunda being used as a beerhall,” said Father Wickens. “Which may, I confess, contribute to the reduced number of marriages over which I preside. But I insist on dignity.”

“Which is why Carris and Tamar came to you,” said Darla.

The old man dipped his head in an old-fashioned bow.

There was a lot more of the same. Shoes had to be placed on feet at a certain hour, and not before. Flowers of specific colors were affixed to veils and lapels in this fashion, but not before certain songs were sung. Guests had to arrive in batches of ten, wines had to stay on the north ends of certain rooms. There were even restrictions on the partings of hair and the wearing of copper buttons.

And when the big moment arrived and the Broken Bell was struck, the grooms had to be holding the hands of their new brides, he facing east and she facing west, and they were to kiss just as the last echoes of the Bell faded.

When the Father ran out of ifs and buts, I stood and stretched my legs.

“Thanks, Father. Looks like all we have to do is show up and keep our eyes open for trouble.”

The Father frowned.

“Um. Are you, dear, a bridesmaid?”

“No.”

“And you, sir? A groomsman?”

“If I say yes, will that get me inside?”

The Father shook his head. “You could come as guests, of course. But that will only place you in the presence of the bride and groom near the end of the day.”

“Not good enough, Father. The people I’m worried about won’t stand in line patiently waiting their turn.”

“We have armed men among us, you know. I’ll see that they are in place-discreetly, of course.”

“That might be enough, and it might not be.”

I’d just ridden a warhorse into a church. I’d done that without much thought, and with only the faintest inkling of dread.

But what I was thinking now-that, I realized, that was dangerous.

I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry.

“Oh, don’t look so pale, hon,” said Darla. “Father. Tamar is in danger. Her fiance too. What Mr. Markhat is struggling to ask is this-what if we entered the premises, that day, under the pretense of getting married ourselves? Wouldn’t that put me with Tamar, and him with Carris, all day, right up until the last moment?”

The Father bit his lip.

“It would. And if you simply left the cathedral before you spoke the vows, you would be neither married nor disruptive of the ceremony.” He shrugged and frowned. “I do not love suggesting such a thing, but-yes. Yes, I would allow it.”

“It’s settled then.” I turned to Darla and winked. “Dear, we’re getting hitched.”

She smiled and clutched my arm.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

There was little chance to talk when we left Wherthmore. Darla held tight and laughed a couple of times, but that was all the conversation we could muster above the clopping of hooves and the sway of the ride.

For which I was thankful in no small measure.

Planning a wedding, even a sham wedding designed to keep Tamar and groom alive through their very real vows, was a danger all its own.

Knowing that Darla knew I musing upon that very fact didn’t help. The empty streets and the broken, looted storefronts and scurrying ne’er-do-wells didn’t help set a festive mood, either.

War was coming. Chaos was loosed. Fires smoldered, trailing the horizon with fans of black smoke.

And yet Tamar Fields was going through with her wedding, come war, Hell or wand-wavers.

Foolish? Brave? Both?

I couldn’t say.

And I knew that my failure to do so was a subtle knife twisting in Darla’s heart.

I spurred the horse and urged her on, though in truth I had little idea where exactly I was heading. I needed to know how Evis was faring. I needed more rounds for the hand-cannon. I needed to know if Pratt had survived, if Lethway lived, if Japeth Stricken had cheated death again, and was lurking in the shadows eager to exact a twice-thwarted vengeance.

Between downtown and Avalante lay fires and angry mobs. Even mounted, I was wary of such a journey. Doubly so with Darla’s hands clasped around my chest.

Finding Pratt seemed easiest. Of course that meant risking a meeting with Lethway, but since he might well have died at the Timbers I decided to chance it.

I managed to convey my intentions to Darla in a shout. I didn’t make any attempt to take her home.

I didn’t think I could bear to hurt her twice in one day.

We made for Lethway’s offices. I didn’t think Pratt would still be employed there, but I knew I could find out who was alive and who was being winged to wonders above.

I brought the mare to a halt right in front of Lethway’s building. The street was populated by a trio of Watch sergeants and a bevy of idling soldiers. I’d planned on sneaking in, but even Lethway wouldn’t dare murder in the street in front of the Watch.

The doors were open. A pair of stout worthies flanked them and made no secret of carrying crossbows in open defiance of city law.

I dismounted, tied the mare to the hitching post and carefully approached the door, my hands open at my sides and my face a smiling beacon of goodwill.

“Good day, gents.”

No reply. But they kept their crossbows aimed at the street. I laid a hand on the door and neither of them blinked.

I opened it and stepped inside.

The place was a beehive. Harried men in suits ran to and fro, shouting and waving papers. Messenger boys charged up and down stairs. Half a dozen lawyers in top hats and capes conferred in a corner, hungry vultures dividing up the feast.

But there, behind the desk, I spied a familiar face.

“Miss Marchin,” I said. “So good to see you again.”

Miss Marchin looked up. Her eyes were red and so was the tip of her nose.

“Oh, go away,” she said. Her lip trembled. “Just go away, or I’ll yell for Cooper and Benny.”

I stopped. “No need for that. I’m just looking for Pratt.”

“He’s dead.” She mopped at her face with a white cloth. “Just go.”

“Pratt? Dead?” I took a step backward. “I’m going. I’m sorry. I liked him.”

She cried a bit into her hanky.

“Mr. Lethway?”

“Nearly dead. Elf-struck. They say he won’t last the day. What do you care? Get out.”

She threw something at me. I assumed it was the hanky at first, but it flew too straight, too true.

She managed a wink out of those puffy red eyes.

I bent and scooped up the object she’d thrown.

I got. Benny and Cooper watched me go with no signs of interest. Darla waited until we rounded the corner to speak.

“Well?”

“I’m told Pratt is dead. I’m told Lethway is heading that way.”

I couldn’t see her frown, but I could hear it in her voice.

“But you don’t believe that.”

“My right coat pocket. A note. Read it for me, won’t you?”

She found the paper, read it, brought her lips close to my ear.

“Pratt is alive,” she said. “He wants you to come see him.”

She read me an address, and I turned the mare that way.

Chapter Twenty-Five

We were soon surrounded by Army tallboys, Army troop transports and whopping big twenty-horse Army cargo flats.