“I hope he knows what he's asking.”
Vinca looked at her image in the mirror and grimaced. “I look like
something made out of spun fluff. Ick.” She tugged her petticoat
up to grimace at the delicate ivory slippers and the silk stockings
she had on. She really missed the wool ones, but silk stocking were
traditional for Pachem brides, and they were sticklers for tradition.
Except she qualified as one of them now. “Even if I freeze my damn
toes off.” It was coming on for winter, it was cold out, damnit.
“Should've waited until spring.”
“Vinca?” Goodwife Rice held up
another petticoats, this one bright red. It was fertility or some
such. They all had a meaning, silk stockings for walking lightly on
the earth, low heeled slippers so she could step of them and onto
Mavi's shoes, because he'd support her from now on, a half dozen
petticoats, all different colors, gold for riches, blue for loyalty,
red for fertility, green for health, purple for dignity or some such,
and the final petticoat white, for purity.
Even if the bride was about to pop out
a kid, like the new Goodwife Fairuza Bourden, married this past
spring, and her son showing up five days later. Goodwife Rice tugged
on the ties for the petticoat. “A pity you haven't more of a waist,
or a bit more height. We had to take the hems up a good half foot.”
“I am what – “ Vinca grunted as
the ties cut in a bit sharply. “I am.”
The final petticoat came down over
Vinca's head. “At least I don't have to stand on a stool to dress
you.”
Vinca batted away the older woman's
hands and tied the last petticoat off herself. “I helped with all
those hems, so quit complaining. If I'd my way we'd have done this
in the capital, a little paperwork, some words, and bang, Done.”
She took an experimental breath, and found that still worked.
As expected, that sent Goodwife Rice,
and all the other goodwives helping Vinca get ready for the wedding
off on a rant fit for a drill sergeant, but it distracted them, and
she was able to get a couple more bits of clothes on, even it if twas
just a pair of silver wrist cuffs, left her by Goodwife Melton, so
she wouldn't come to the marriage a pauper. They circled her and
helped her put on her shirt, the front heavy with embroidered flowers
in multi-colored silk, the sleeves billowing because she wasn't going
to drag them through the food today, nor was she going to spill
anything on it, at least she hoped not. It seemed like a hundred
tiny buttons had to be fastened up, a dozen on each cuff. An apron
stiff with more embroidered flowers went on over the petticoats,
because the creamy white overgown they put her in was open down the
front, and the fancy apron showed in the split between the edges, and
the lacing only cinched in her waist. At least it was wool.
The elder Goodwife Bourden held a
wreath of wires and little glass flowers. “It's a shame about your
hair.”
“Yeah, well. It's clean at least.”
A year hadn't been enough to grow her hair long enough to be a Pachem
woman's 'crowning glory' It'd barely grown long enough to tie back,
never mind put up in waist length braids.
And after today, it'd be covered in
public anyway, as a married woman. Vinca sat down and let them pin
the wreath to the top of her head, let them drape ribbons down her
back, because she hadn't the hair to drape.
Goodwife Rice offered her a cup of
something. Vinca took a swig and gasped, “What the hells is that?”
It hit her stomach like a bomb and spread out like a wildfire.
“A bit of poteen.” Goodwife Rice
took the cup back, “something to make the day go a bit easier.”
“I have another swallow of that and
it'll go so easy I'm sleeping through it.” Vinca stood. “That
stuff's potent.”
Goodwife Rice smiled slyly. “But are
you nervous any more?”
Vinca shook her head. “I never was
nervous. Just terrified.”
“Ready?” someone asked, and Vinca
swallowed, then nodded.
“Let's get this show on the road.”
Theyd dressed Vinca in the women's hall
of the guesthouse, as they'd dressed Mavi in the Pastorage. She
walked down the stairs to the community hall, it was the only place
in the parish large enough to hold most of the people who wanted to
see the show. It wasn't every day a Pastor got married hereabouts.
It wasn't every day the Pastor's mother performed the ceremony.
The Goodwives opened the door into the
hall and she was her future mother-in-law, still looking a bit like
she'd found half a worm in her apple, but there, showing matching
embroidered flowers and creamy white clothes, was Mavi. Nesim
must've fussed, he was in his father's arms, watching her with
uncanny golden eyes, one hand fisted and shoved mostly into his
mouth. Vinca looked at Mavi and grinned, trust the kiddle to get
into the middle of everything. He spotted her and grinned ruefully
as she walked toward them.
Nesim spotted her and reached out with
both hands, grabbing at the air. “Ah!” A ripple of laughter went
through the crowd.
She joined them at the front of the
room and let Nesim catch two of her fingers, grinning at them both.
“Ready?” Mavi asked.
“As I'm ever like to be.” She
reached up, tugged him down into range, gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Ready, Pastor?”
“As I am ever like to be.” He
grinned at her, and turned with her to face his mother, the Bishop.
978 words
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