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He scowled. “It’s not about you, Mally. It’s about us. Our child will rule?—”

“No. Our child will hate you,” I shot back, “and if you don’t let me go, so will the rest of the magical world. My family will find me. Etienne will find me. And when they do, you won’t even be a greasy spot on the sidewalk.”

Silver snorted, unimpressed. Oonagh turned away, barking last-minute instructions to the musicians who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere—an assemble of what looked like a jazz band made entirely of enchanted skeletons.

Linden knelt beside me, eyes desperate. “Don’t do this. I am giving you a place in history. We could rule the South. You and me—witches married as we should be.”

“You are not a true witch. You are half orc—and everyone knows it” I said, voice gone low and bitter.

He slapped me. Not hard, but with enough force to leave a sting. The pain cleared the fog in my brain and brought my vision into sudden, painful focus.

“You’re not a victim here,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m doing you are favor. You’re the one holding up progress.”

“Go to hell, Linden.” I spat in his face.

He wiped his cheek, trembling, and then nodded to Silver, who seized me by the arm and held me in place.

The flowerpot was still rattling, harder now. I caught Jocko’s eye as I passed, and he flashed his claws in a tiny, defiant salute.

I blinked, willing my tired brain to focus. The glow inside me intensified, blossoming into an inferno. Then I saw it. A bouncing light in the corner of the room.

My heart stuttered. Papa?

The Fue Follet flame wobbled, then stabilized, I could see him, my tiny dad in his magical ball of light. His eyes burned bright with concern and love.

“Ma petite,” he whispered, the words floating on a breathless current only I could hear. “I found you. Etienne comes. You must endure a little more. You are never alone.”

A tremor ran through me, the shock of hope so fierce, it nearly undid my carefully constructed wall of outward rage.

I was distracted from the small ball of light to the pastor who had just appeared like the jazz ensemble. The pastor was a skeleton, too, in full robes.

“Hurry,” I whispered back, feeling the tears prick at the edges of my vision.

The blue fire winked, a gentle parental nudge. “We are closer than you think. Be brave, my darling.”

Before I could reply, the apparition blinked out, leaving only the faint smell of burnt sugar and the echo of his voice warming my soul.

Oonagh, busy spritzing perfume around the suite like it was a bug bomb, did not notice my brief emotional breakdown. But someone else had.

Linden studied me, his face pale and tight. He fixed me with a look somewhere between suspicion and anger. “Who were you talking to?”

I met his gaze, all bravado. “Just telling myself this is the worst wedding I’ve ever been to.”

He scowled, but before he could press the point, Oonagh seized the moment. “Everything is ready! Places, everyone!”

The next five minutes blurred into a nightmare montage. Silver dragging me down a silver-carpeted hallway. Oonagh arranging the train of my skirt, her hands sharp and impersonal. Linden gliding down the aisle to stand beneath the wedding arch, every inch the deranged prince. The skeleton jazz band struck up a tune so off-key and mournful I almost felt bad for the dead. Almost.

The altar was set at the far end of a ballroom, its walls draped with more silver tulle, the ceiling a mess of mirrored globes and chandeliers.

As I approached the altar, I caught sight of the flowerpot in the corner. It was rattling so violently it threatened to roll off its pedestal. Jocko’s desperate attempts at freedom were growing wilder by the second.

I willed him to hold on, just a little longer.

They positioned me beside Linden, and I nearly collapsed. Only Silver’s vice grip kept me upright.

The bony pastor began the ceremony, his voice monotone and gravelly, “We are gathered here to unite Mally Jourdain and Linden Lowell?—”

“That’s not my name anymore,” I said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s Dubois.”