Part 9 (1/2)

I'd look like a Goth s.h.i.+rley Temple. ”I already have all that taken care of, Mom.”

She nodded suspiciously. ”You are planning on going back to blonde, though, right? It's just that it suits your coloring so much better.”

”If I tried to bleach the dye that's already in my hair, G.o.ddess only knows what color I'd end up . . . if all my hair didn't fall out first.”

My mother looked stricken.

I thought she might start to cry again, so I blurted out, ”Do you think the dress can be s.h.i.+pped and altered in time?”

She brightened. ”You'll wear it?”

”If it means that much to you,” I said, ”of course, I will.”

William was shoveling the sidewalk as I came down the block. He had on the cla.s.sic shapeless parka most Midwesterners sported half the year, but he accented it with one of those extra-long tipped elf hats that hung almost to the back of his knees. It was bright yellow with black stripes and a big pompom at the end.

”Who's minding the store?” I asked.

”I called in Slow Bob. I was starting to get worried about you.”

”I'm sorry. I should have called. Family crisis.” I thrust the picture at him. ”My mother wants me to wear this.”

He leaned up against the shovel and adjusted his gla.s.ses. ”It's . . . uh, it's very nice?” He looked at me, and I shook my head.

”It's beautiful-gorgeous, even, but it's not what I wanted. I'll look ridiculous in that. I spent hundreds of dollars on a trim silver evening dress. It 's modern and stylish, and it took me three months to find it.”

”Oh. So, uh, can you say no or something?” He handed the picture back and tucked the shovel into the crook of his arm.

Together we headed for the door.

”I don't know. My only hope is that it's so old it can't really be fitted to me.” I sighed. ”My mother was hysterical, though. I've never seen her like that. She's usually such a stoic Norwegian, you know?”

William nodded, but I knew he had no idea. He'd told me his family was Irish and typically loud and boisterous.

Slow Bob looked visibly relieved when we walked in. Bob was an excellent employee. Punctual, polite, and often available for short-notice s.h.i.+fts, he was a master alphabetizer, and I swore he read every single t.i.tle we purchased. Slow Bob 's biggest drawback was that he would not be hurried, regardless of how many people might be waiting. I suspected that he became so slow on the register because he really hated that particular aspect of the job, and he seized up with intense shyness whenever he was forced to deal with a customer.

William stepped into the back room to put the shovel away. Slow Bob gave me a little happy wave and retreated to the shelves. I took the spot he vacated behind the counter.

I looked at the photograph again. It wasn't so bad. At least it wasn't pink taffeta, like poor Izzy was going to be wearing if I didn't fix things.

I spent the rest of the day at work dividing my time between my duties to the store and trying to solve various personal crises.

The wedding, however, remained a Gordian knot. I couldn't untangle the damage. I must have called every band and music agency listed in the phone book. Nearly everyone was either already booked or unavailable so close to the Christmas holiday.

There was one called White Wedding, a Billy Idol tribute band, but I couldn't decide if that was better or worse than polka. The vision of my dad and me sharing ”Rebel Yell,” just didn't quite work for me. For now, we were stuck with ”Roll Out the Barrel.”

I got my mom on finding a cake. I thought that giving her a job might help distract her and soothe her ruffled feathers. She seemed eager, and even though I told her I'd like to try to find local and organic bakers, I also gave up any reasonable hope she could find what I wanted on such short notice. I told her I'd be happy with anything she could find, and I meant it.

As for the bridesmaid's dresses, I had a thought. After William and I fended off a brief rush of customers buying Solstice cards and G.o.ddess-themed ornaments, I turned to him. ”Say, do you still have a lot of friends in the Society for Creative Anachronism?”

He looked a little embarra.s.sed. ”Why?”

”I remember that girl you dated. She was an amazing seamstress, and she made that one awesome dress with all the beadwork in, like, two weeks.”

”Lady Candice, yeah,” he said with a fond smile.

”Are you on speaking terms?”

”Again with the 'why'?” he asked.

”The dresses for the bridesmaids,” I said. ”The order is all screwed up, remember? I've got the right dresses on back order, but, well, the way things are going, I'd like to have a backup plan.”

”I think she's expensive when she does work for non-SCA people, but I'll give you her number.”

”That's great, William. Thanks,” I said, and then I set out on the Internet to find a possible pattern for the lady to use.

I hummed while I surfed. I felt, briefly, like things might be back on track again.

It was dark by the time we closed up the shop. Since William was coming to the bridal shower/coven meeting, he offered me a ride home.

I was turning the key in the shop's lock when a figure stepped out of the shadows. I almost did my ninja -Lilith thing again before I recognized Parrish. I showed him my keys in my fist, ”You're going to have to stop doing that. I'm going to end up killing you.”

He smiled devilishly. ”Sorry, it's in my nature, dear Garnet. h.e.l.lo, William,” he said in a rather predatory tone.

William scratched his neck nervously, and said, ”Uh, hi,” huskily. I stared at the two of them. It was clear there was history between them I didn't know. William watched the neon marquee light flicker on the snowdrifts without meeting Parrish's eyes; all the while Parrish stared hungrily at him.

”Uh, anyway, I'm glad you're skulking about,” I said to Parrish. ”I wanted to have a word with you.”

”Oh?” Parrish glanced away from William long enough to give me a raised eyebrow. ”What about?”

”Tereza. You did a great act the other night, pretending you didn't know her or what she was. I think you turned her.”

”Why would I do that? She belongs to Sebastian, doesn't she?”

”Yeah, exactly.” That was precisely the sort of thing that would motivate Parrish beyond hard, cold cash: getting one up on Sebastian.

”Uh, we're going to be late,” William said quietly.

”Did Matyas pay you to vamp her?”

Parrish tried to look offended. ”You think I'd sell the Dark Gift?”

”Yes,” I said with a smile. ”You'd sell your own grandmother if the price was right.”

Parrish laughed. ”You know me well, indeed.”