Chapter 51: SEVENTEEN OPINIONS

Lady Valcrest arrived with the wedding planner, seventeen opinions, and a carriage full of fabric samples.

The wedding planner was a man named Cressida Vane — tall, thin, with the posture of someone who’d never slouched and the expression of someone who’d seen terrible weddings and prevented worse ones.

"Mr. Astaroth," he said, shaking Vael’s hand. "Ms. Valcrest. I have planned forty-three noble weddings. This —" he looked at the inn, the yard, the plum tree, "— will be forty-four."

"Welcome," Vael said. "There’s roast."

"There’s always roast," Lady Valcrest said, sweeping past him — and then she saw her daughter, and the formidable field surgeon, the Triage, the woman who’d held dying soldiers together with willpower — stopped, and cried.

"Mother—"

"Don’t." Lady Valcrest hugged her — hard. "Let me look at you." She held Lyria at arm’s length. Examined the ring. "It fits."

"You measured."

"I measured." She turned to Vael. "You opened the box."

"I opened the box."

"You asked."

"I asked."

"She said yes."

"She said yes."

Lady Valcrest looked at him for a long moment. Then — with enormous dignity — she said: "About time."

"Mother," Lyria said, "you wrote that in the letter."

"And I meant it in person, too." She hugged him — brief, fierce, smelling of lavender and authority. "Welcome to the family, Vael. Officially. The paperwork was always just —" she waved a hand, "— paperwork."

---

The seventeen opinions began at dinner.

"Opinion one," Lady Valcrest said, counting on her fingers. "The wedding should be here. At the inn. Under the plum tree." She looked at Cressida. "Opinion two through seventeen are Cressida’s."

Cressida cleared his throat. Opened a leather folio. "The plum tree," he said, "is —" he consulted his notes, "— *charming*. However. For a wedding of this —" he searched for the word, "— *significance* —"

"What significance?" Vael asked.

"You’re a former Demon King marrying a Valcrest. The *pamphlets* —" Cressida held up the special edition, "— have made this a matter of public interest. Half the county will come. The Ministry will send someone. The —" he lowered his voice, "— the *press*."

"The press," Lyria repeated.

"The *Millow Gazette*." Cressida said it like a battlefield. "They’ve already requested a seating chart."

Vael looked at Lyria. Lyria looked at Vael.

"No," they said together.

"No?" Cressida blinked. "No what?"

"No seating chart," Lyria said. "No —" she gestured at the folio, "— no *significance*. It’s a wedding, Cressida. Not a summit."

"But the guest list—"

"Is ours," Vael said. "The inn. The town. Family." He paused. "The plum tree."

Cressida looked at Lady Valcrest — for rescue.

Lady Valcrest was smiling. "Opinion eighteen," she said. "The children are right."

"Eighteen?" Cressida stared. "There were only supposed to be seventeen."

"I have more now. I’m a mother of the bride. The opinions multiply." She patted his hand. "You’ll learn."

---

The planning — what there was of it — took three days.

Cressida, to his credit, adapted. The forty-four-wedding professional watched Vael and Lyria — watched them choose the plum tree without hesitation, watched them argue (briefly, fondly) about cake flavors, watched Lyria veto a flower arch ("It’ll block the dusk light") and Vael veto a string quartet ("Toma’s friend plays the fiddle. He’s ten. He’s terrible. He’s perfect.") — and slowly, visibly, the planner’s shoulders came down from around his ears.

"It’s —" he said on the third day, watching Morrigan drill an honor guard of inn staff in the yard, "— it’s *unorthodox*."

"It’s us," Lyria said.

"It’s —" Cressida watched Toma — appointed ring bearer, practicing his walk with a cushion — trip over his own feet, get up, and bow to an imaginary audience. "It’s *charming*." He said it like a confession. "Forty-three noble weddings. None of them —" he stopped. "None of them looked like this."

"Like what?"

"Like the people were —" he searched, "— *happy*. Before it started."

Lyria took his arm — kindly, the way she’d take a patient’s arm. "Then let’s make this one happy. All the way through."

Cressida nodded. Opened his folio. Crossed out — firmly — twelve pages of seating charts.

"Under the plum tree," he said. "At dusk." He wrote it down. "Forty-fourth wedding. The best one."

---

The cake tasting was — in Cressida’s words — "unconventional."

In Vael’s words, it was "research."

He’d made seven cakes. Seven. Laid out on the kitchen table like a delicious battlefield.

"Seven?" Lyria said.

"Research," Vael repeated. "We need data."

"We need *a* cake."

"We need the *right* cake." He cut a slice of number one — vanilla, classic. "Taste."

Lyria tasted. "Good."

"Just good?"

"Good." She pointed at number two — chocolate. "That one."

Vael cut number two. Tasted. Closed his eyes. "Better than good."

"What’s better than good?"

"—" He searched. "Adequate."

Lyria stared at him. Then burst out laughing. "You’ve been spending too much time with my aunt."

"She’s a bad influence." He cut number three — lemon. "Taste."

They worked through all seven — vanilla, chocolate, lemon, honey (number four, the famous one), spice, almond, and a mysterious number seven that Vael refused to identify.

"What’s seven?" Lyria asked, chewing.

"An experiment."

"What kind of experiment?"

"The kind where I don’t tell you." He watched her face. "Well?"

She chewed. Thought. "It’s —" she frowned, "— it’s *good*. What’s in it?"

"Plum." He smiled. "From the tree."

Lyria went quiet. Looked at the cake. Looked at him.

"Number seven," she said.

"Number seven," he agreed.

Cressida, taking notes, wrote: *Cake: number seven. Plum. From the tree. Significance: emotional. Cost: negligible. Impact: maximum.* He underlined *maximum* twice.

Toma, who’d been "supervising" (eating crumbs), raised his hand. "Can I have number seven at the wedding?"

"You can have number seven *now*," Vael said, cutting him a slice. "Quality control."

"Best job," Toma said, mouth full. "After patrol."

---

Morrigan’s honor guard was — in her words — "CEREMONIAL, NOT MILITARY."

It was military.

She’d assembled Pell, two stable hands, and — to everyone’s surprise — Aunt Corvina, who’d agreed to participate on the condition that she could bring "one sword. For aesthetics."

"One sword," Vael confirmed.

"One sword," Corvina agreed. "The short one."

They drilled in the yard. Morrigan called commands. Corvina corrected Morrigan’s form — gently, the way a master corrects a student, which made Morrigan glow so brightly Seraphina had to look away.

"THE GENERAL IS LEARNING FROM A LEGEND," Morrigan whispered to Vael, during a water break.

"You’re doing great," Vael said.

"I KNOW." She wiped her eyes. "IT’S THE PIE. THE PIE OPENED THE DOOR."

---

The guest list was — mercifully — short.

The town. The inn. Family. A few of Lyria’s friends from the capital. Halric’s cousins (the ones who weren’t terrible).

And — at the bottom, in Vael’s handwriting, added last —

*Edran. (If he comes.)*

Lyria found him staring at the name.

"He’ll come," she said. "Or he won’t. Either way —" she took his hand, "— the door’s open. That’s the important part."

"What if —" Vael stopped.

"What?"

"What if he comes and it’s — hard?"

"Then it’ll be hard." She squeezed his hand. "And we’ll get through it. That’s what weddings are *for*, Vael. Not the flowers. Not the —" she gestured vaguely, "— the *aesthetic*. It’s —" she thought, "— it’s standing up in front of everyone and saying: this is hard, and I’m doing it anyway. With you."

He looked at her. Then at the list. Then — slowly — he nodded.

"With you," he said.

---

The date was set: the last Saturday of the month. Under the plum tree. At dusk.

Cressida wrote it in the folio — in ink, underlined twice — and closed it with the air of a man signing a treaty.

"Forty-four," he said. "The best one."

Behind the counter, the crystal DINGed — warm, approving:

[Wedding date: SET.]

[Location: the plum tree. At dusk. (Obviously.)]

[Guest list: finalized. (Pending one "if he comes.")]

[The module has updated the wedding scenarios. Scenario 12 ("the entire town") is now —]

[A pause.]

[— unnecessary. The town invited itself.]

[The module wishes to note: it approves.]

[The module wishes to note: it has never approved of anything this much.]

[The module is glowing. Again.]

Vael looked at the date in the folio. He looked at Lyria — his fiancée, ring on her finger, seventeen opinions survived.

"One month," he said.

"One month," she agreed. "Plenty of time."

It was not plenty of time. But they’d stopped pretending it needed to be.

That night — under the plum tree, at dusk, the way they always did — Vael took her hand and said:

"Lyria Valcrest. One month."

"Vael Zar Astaroth. One month." She smiled — the smile that ended wars. "Try not to release any doves."

"No promises."

"Vael."

"*Morrigan* makes no promises."

She laughed — and the crystal, inside, DINGed along —

— and the wedding was a month away, and the plum tree stood over them, patient as ever, and Vael thought:

*One month. Then forever.*

*Pending: nothing.*

Except — of course — the seventeen opinions. And the honor guard. And the cake. And the guest list with one name at the bottom, in Vael’s handwriting, waiting.

*Edran. (If he comes.)*

Vael looked at the name — at the door, still open — and thought: one month.

Plenty of time. For everything. Even for hope.