Nani named the male bartender. Adriana protested that she’d known him for years. When the security team scoured the ship for him, they found him easily—he’d hung himself in his cabin. We might never know why he’d done it or who he might have been working with.
The whole chain of events cast a pall over the party and it wasn’t long before the captain turned the ship around to take the subdued group of friends back to shore.
28
The wedding had been being planned for more than a year with military precision and timing. An army of workers were laboring to take care of even the tiniest details. You would think that there wouldn’t be any last-second preparations required on the final day.
You would be wrong.
That Nellie Standish had been able to get onto the princess’s yacht and that a member of Adriana’s own staff had been compromised had the secret service in a frothing fury. I went to the security meeting and listened as Thorsen went over the schedule for the next day minute by minute, confirming who would be in charge of what and which units where doing what where and when. Air space had been closed off over the capital city for the entire morning. Uniformed police would be stationed along the parade route at ten-foot intervals, providing a very visible presence. Less visible would be Creede, who was coordinating the work of the mages who would create an unseen magical barrier to protect the royals for the entire length of the two- mile procession. The Secret Service agents were doing continuous sweeps for bombs and snipers. Radio announcements and printed handouts asked all citizens and visitors to report anything suspicious.
The sheer size of the endeavor was staggering. And even with all of the preparation, Thorsen and everyone else in the room were fully aware that we couldn’t keep Queen Lopaka, Princess Adriana, and the others completely safe. The route was too open and too long. But everything that could be done was being done by professionals who were the best in the business.
And all this was for the casual part of the program. The procedures in place for the big church wedding in Rusland were going to be even more elaborate.
I was proud to be a part of history in the making. I was terrified of screwing up.
On the Internet, the Guardians of the Faith denounced the upcoming ritual on Serenity, decried Adriana’s baptism as a fraud, and threatened decisive action if she ever dared set foot on Ruslandic soil. They sounded hysterical and crazy. Then again, they probably were. But though the best minds in the security services of three countries tried, they were unable to trace the source of the messages. The bad guys had thoroughly covered those tracks. It was impressive and frightening—they’d spent a lot of time and effort to make themselves untraceable.
On Serenity, every trail connecting to the man who’d tried to kidnap my grandmother held a fresh corpse. Some were obviously victims of foul play. One was an apparent suicide. In the United States, the FBI had found Clarke, murdered with gruesome irony on a standing warehouse set that had been used in the James Bond movie A Place to Die. I was glad I had an alibi for that one, because it was common knowledge that Clarke had been harassing me and that I hated the bastard.
Jan was in the wind and there was still no sign of Okalani. Despite the words of Laka’s seer, I was losing hope of anyone finding her alive.
It was hard. I would save her if I could. But first someone had to find her. Both the queen’s people and the FBI were working with local law enforcement to search anywhere that Clarke had been known to frequent, so far to no avail. Okalani was off the grid and definitely in danger. Knowing that the mess she was in, start to finish, was her own fault didn’t make it any better. Most of our problems are of our own making. Since there was nothing I could do to help her, I tried to put the whole situation from my mind.
The morning dawned bright and clear—something I knew because I watched the sun rise through the French doors of my suite. The procession was scheduled to start at 9:00 sharp and there was a lot to be done before then. And it wasn’t as if I had been sleeping, anyway.
I brushed my teeth, then stumbled to the shower, hoping it would help wake me enough to keep me moving until I got some caffeine. I scrubbed and shampooed, but didn’t dry or style my hair or put on makeup. Both would be taken care of later by professionals—Adriana, Olga, Natasha, and I would all be getting “done” in my big living room. The very best hair and makeup artists in the world had been hired to make sure we looked perfect. I was a little surprised they were letting me dress myself. They must figure I could be trusted to tie on a lavalava. Silly them.
I pulled the dress from its garment bag, laying it across the bed. It was a striking piece made of raw silk in a red so dark it was almost black, with a pattern of glittering silver and gold abstract flowers and contrasting black bamboo. It was dark enough to set off my pale coloring and blonde hair and looked good with the black jacket and matching picture hat I’d be wearing to protect the delicate skin of my face.
Isaac had come through with the solution for my hands and feet: handmade gloves and boots covered in illusion spells that made them look eerily like bare hands and feet—with a perfect manicure and pedicure to match my dress, no less. My skin would be covered and protected, but I’d look like everyone else. I was more grateful to him than I could say.
When I was dressed, I went downstairs to join the others. I’d accessorized with a boatload of concealed weapons as well as the ruby-and-diamond earrings and bracelet that I’d used to have Gilda spy on Olga and Natasha for me—not because I needed their special properties, but simply because they were the best match for my outfit.
I was directed to a tall stool, where an elderly woman with close-cropped curls and skin the color of café au lait whipped a black plastic cape over my shoulders and began using a wide-toothed comb to detangle my hair. It took a bit of time. I have a lot of hair.
“It’s a bit windy today, and I understand you want to wear a hat, is that right?” she asked. There was no censure in her voice.
“Yes. I need to protect my skin.”
“In that case, why don’t I pull it over to one side, and arrange it in curls trailing over your shoulder?” She combed it into place, to give me an idea of how it would work.
“I like that.” I smiled at her.
I sat still, letting her do her thing with a variety of pleasantly scented hair products, a blow dryer, and a pair of tortoiseshell combs. All the while I wished fervently for a cup of black coffee. I can function without caffeine in the morning, but I’m never happy about it.
The stylist was working with the curling iron when Hiwahiwa arrived at the head of a parade of servers pushing carts laden with food and drink—everything from capers to caviar, bagels with cream cheese to scrambled eggs, English breakfast tea to—oh joy and rapture—coffee. It smelled glorious. They even brought me a Sunset Smoothie that must have been made from Juan and Barbara’s recipe. It was all I could do to sit still and let the hairdresser finish what she was doing instead of pouncing on the tray like some ravening beast. I’d have to brush my teeth again to get rid of the garlic and onions, but the coffee and the wonderful food were worth every second.
“All done.” She turned the stool around so I could get a look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “What do you think?”
I looked great. Even without makeup. “Wow.”
“You have great hair,” she said as she whisked off the cape. “Now go eat. When you’re done they’ll want you down the hall for makeup.”
“Thanks, so much.” I wished I could tip her, but I hadn’t brought down my purse. “Um…” I tried to think of an apology that didn’t sound lame, but couldn’t think of a thing.
It was as if she read my mind, or maybe just my uncomfortable expression. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured me. “Everything’s been taken care of. Tips and everything.”
I enjoyed my breakfast while my hairdresser worked on Natasha. I half expected Hiwahiwa to approach me with word about Laka or Okalani, but she didn’t. Most likely, there wasn’t anything to say. Still, I was glad to move to the next room and put some distance between us.
“I’m going to use a base with the heaviest sunscreen available,” the makeup artist assured me as she swept another little capelet over my shoulders. This one was hot pink and marked with the logo of her company. The color was an almost exact match for her short, spiked hair and perfect manicure.
“I appreciate that.”
“My name is Brenna.”
“Celia.”
“I know.” She smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Now try to relax.”
I tried, but wasn’t very successful. It was weird having somebody paint makeup on me. I didn’t like it. Still, I couldn’t argue with the result. When she stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror, I was stunned.
That was me? Wow. I had a moment of pure ego—which was deflated the minute I got a look at my cousin, seated nearby.
Everybody says brides are radiant, and Adriana was. Her long red hair was held to one side by pearl-encrusted combs carved from abalone shells; it fell in a cascade of curls over one shoulder. The lavalava she wore was dark gold, cream, and yellow, and was tied in a way that showed off her dangerous curves. The cross King Dahlmar had given her the night before nestled in her ample cleavage; the colors of the dress picked up the topaz in the necklace and her topaz-and-pearl earrings.
The makeup artist hadn’t needed to do much for her. Adriana had amazing skin and she was so excited and happy that cosmetics were almost redundant—almost.
Natasha and Olga were both looking lovely as well. I studied myself again in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. Today I could hold my own with the other bridesmaids, and that was good, because even if the bride was going to be the center of attention, I’d be in lots of the wedding photos, and the event was being televised all over the world. Too, there’d be press photographers taking shots for all the international print media.
There was a light tap on the door.
