Michael drapes the reins across the footboard, descends and rounds the rear of the carriage. Wes climbs in first, and then Michael hands me up. There’s a thick wool blanket folded on the rear-facing bench, but it’s a warm evening, not too hot and not cool yet either. I cuddle in close to Wes as Michael settles back into the driver’s seat, clamps his pipe in his teeth and grabs the reins.
He taps them lightly against Magnus’s back with a grunted, “Giddyap, Magnus. There’s a boy.”
The huge horse lunges into a smooth trot, and we head toward the sea in a northwest line. A gull’s caw overhead, is answered in the distance. It’s early evening, now. The sun is plunging with subtle speed under the horizon, huge and red-orange and bright, staining the sea a scintillating barrage of colors.
This is happiness.
Wes’s arm is around me, and his heart thumps steadily against my ear. He’s solid and warm and comforting. I can hear the sea in the distance.
Michael twists in the seat and gestures with his pipe. “Mind if I have a puff?”
Wes just shrugs, giving the decision to me.
“Not at all,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He keeps the reins clutched in his fist, putting the pipe to his teeth. He hesitates as if to make sure I’m watching, glancing at me with a sly sideways grin, and produces a flaring spurt of flame from his fingertips in a neat bit of prestidigitation, and then with a hollow-cheeked suck, the flame bends toward the pipe, bursts upward as a plume of smoke wafts skyward, and then he puffs again and the flame once more bends toward the pipe bowl.
He rubs his fingertips together, and the flame vanishes; he puffs once, twice, and then blows a plume of grayish-blue smoke to the sky. There’s a gentle breeze blowing, and it pulls the smoke away, but I get a whiff—it’s sweet, and not unpleasant.
Magnus trots steadily northwest, and the sea grows closer and louder, and the gulls gather in ever greater numbers, white W shapes wheeling and dipping and flapping and cawing.
I lose track of time—or rather, I never really even started trying to keep track. The ride is smooth and lulling and the scenery beautiful, and I’m content and utterly happy to be fully in this moment.
“Whoa, Magnus. Ease up, there, boy-o. Whoa. Good boy.” Michael clamps the pipe in the corner of his jaws as the carriage rolls to a stop, comes around to hand me down to soft, knee-high grass, which ripples like the waves of the sea in the near-distance.
I can hear it, the soft susurrus of the sea, the waves crashing distant and restless and reckless against the rock, hundreds of feet below. Wes climbs down and wraps his hand around my waist, tucking me against his side.
We’re at a low, small cabin made of large boulders with a cedar shake roof. The windows glow yellow-orange. The door is deep, dark oak with wrought iron straps and a heavy handle. Wes goes right through, leading me into a low-ceilinged living room with exposed beam rafters, dark wood floors that are so old they almost seem soft, and a stone fireplace set for a fire but unlit. There’s a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Michael follows us in with our garment bags and lays them on the bed.
“Thank you, Michael,” he says.
Michael tips his hat with the hand clutching his smoke-trailing pipe. “My pleasure, Mr. Britton. I’ll return in the morning to bring you back to the airfield. Enjoy your evening.” He exits with a tip of his hat, closing the heavy door behind him.
“This whole thing feels…” I shrug, grinning. “Old world.”
“That’s the idea,” Wes says. “How Jen found it, I’ll never know. She’s magic, that woman.” He gestures at the bedroom. “You can dress in there, I’ll change out here.”
I smirk at him. “You don’t want to change together?”
He chuckles. “For this particular experience, no. I want to see you come out and be blown away by your beauty.”
I blush. “Can’t argue with that logic.”
He retrieves his garment bag, and I’m alone in the bedroom—it’s small and cozy, with wood-paneled walls and the same ancient, worn flooring as in the living room, and the exposed beam ceiling. There’s a fireplace here, using the same chimney. The bed is enormous, taking up most of the room, leaving just enough space for an armoire.
I unzip the bag and gingerly lay out the dress—a forest green gown a shade or two darker than my eyes. It’s got a gauzy, flowy skirt that bells out from my hips and swirls around my ankles, with a tight silk bodice and sleeveless heart-shaped neckline. Part of what thrilled me so much about the shopping experience was that the girl who helped me decide on the dress tactfully suggested this one, because it has built-in padding in the bust, as well as being cleverly cut to cushion and support. Translation: it makes it look like I actually have boobs. Which is thrilling in a way you just can’t understand, unless you understand. I slip into it, adjust and tug and smooth, and then regard myself in the floor-length mirror propped against one wall in the tiny bedroom.
Tears start in my eyes.
I…look like a princess.
Albeit a princess with a ginger buzz cut and rather patchy eyebrows, but a princess nonetheless.
I just wish I had makeup—and knew how to apply it.
Trembling with anticipation, I open the door and emerge.
Wes is already in his tuxedo, a classic three-piece with a bowtie. His hair has been brushed straight back to a glossy shine, and his stubble makes him look rugged and his jawline is as craggy and sharp as the cliffs beyond the door. His eyes are as brown and deep as Magnus’s, shining with intelligence and humor and appreciation and wonder.
He just looks at me for a moment. “Jolene, you look… breathtaking.”
I walk over to him, and in the gown it feels like I’m waltzing, floating every step. “So do you.”
He cups my cheek. “I think there’s one part of getting ready that we’re missing.”
I frown. “What could that be?”
He checks his watch. As if on cue, there’s a soft knock on the door. He answers it, and a short, slender Black woman enters. She wears a short maroon skirt, a white top, and low black wedge-heel sandals; her hair is even shorter than mine, emphasizing her elegant facial structure. Her makeup is perfect, and she’s carrying a big black case.
She smiles up at Wes. “Wow, you’re as handsome in person as you are on the screen.” She doesn’t wait for his reply, politely but firmly ushering him outside. “Now shoo, handsome. We’ve got girl stuff to do.”
Wes grins at me as he steps outside. “Hair and makeup, babe.”
I rub my head. “Well, makeup, at least.”
The woman smiles at me. “I love your hair. If I could get mine that color, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You’re a real beauty, darling—a little bit of makeup, and you’ll make the stars themselves weep.”
She closes the door and guides me to a heavy wooden chair, pulls over one for her, and opens her case on the nearby table, introducing herself as Chloe.
For the next half an hour or so, Chloe smears, dabs, contours, blends…I couldn’t begin to tell you what all, and she keeps up a friendly, easygoing conversation. Asking me about myself, talking about music and movies and mostly Wes, and somehow the conversation never gets around to any of the obvious landmines that might turn a conversation serious. Either she was briefed on my condition, or she’s just that good at steering a conversation. Or both. I’m in awe of her.