Bridesmaid

The following short-story occurs 3 months prior to events of The Hearth Witch's Guide to Magic & Murder

Never make plans when you work A&E.

It was a half-joke made by the Chief Registrar on Magdalena's first day, punctuated with a chuckle and then immediately undercut with a stern expression and a sincere, "No, truly, you will have to cancel plans. Often."

Magdalena knew her work was important. Her friends knew her work was important. Which was why when one of her best friends had invited her to be a bridesmaid, they both knew the risks. It was why, inevitably, when she was scheduled for the early morning shift, they both knew it would not be contested successfully. It was why Saga had gently smiled and said, "It's okay, you'll meet us at the reception."

It was a five minute walk from the Chapel--perhaps she should have gone there first. The parking lot had been relatively empty when she arrived. From what she knew of the wedding itself, the venue was small, and thus the risk of interrupting the ceremony was great. She stayed put and she waited. No cars came.

 She began to worry she was at the wrong location and wandered inside, peering around to find the fully decorated hall in all its splendor, still being set up.

 Her heart palpitated and Magdalena fumbled for her phone. She knew better than to call Saga directly. On her wedding day? No. Or... if she'd somehow mixed up the dates and times, certainly not on the day after her wedding. Instead she called the Maid of Honor: Darcy.

It rang twice before Darcy's strained soprano answered. "Mags?"

 "Tell me I didn't get the day wrong. I might be running of a handful of hours of sleep, but I had so many notes saying the wedding was today."

"It was."

Shit. Was it earlier? "Where is everyone? Has the ceremony not started yet?"

 "N-no, it started."

Why was Darcy being so cagey, and what was that inflection? "Darce, please don’t tell me you answered the phone while it’s still going on…" Her eyes focused on the event workers, seeing them more clearly. They weren't setting up. They were taking bouquets off banquet tables. The wedding decor was being dismantled. "What happened?"

"He left."

It was such a simple sentence, something that should have been easily understood, instead Magdalena felt more disconnected from the situation. “What? What do you mean, he left?”

“He left!” Darcy’s voice was somewhere between a strained squeak and a whisper. “The ceremony was interrupted by this woman I didn’t recognize and she made this big swooping apology to Hugh that I didn’t quite understand, declared she was still in love with him, and then he left with her!”

“Fuck off.” That kind of thing didn’t happen. Not in real life, not to real people, and if it did, it happened to assholes--people who deserved to be left at the altar. It certainly didn’t happen to people like Saga Trygg.

“I’m not kidding, Mags. He didn’t even give our girl a second look, it was horrifying.”

Magdalena smacked her tongue against the roof of her suddenly dry mouth. “Where is she?”

“Locked herself in the bridal suite.”

“I’m coming,” she assured, jogging outside toward the chapel. It would be quicker to run. She’d leave her car in the lot and worry about it later. “Is she alone?”

“Not really. Peregrine is standing outside the doors, and so is…” Darcy’s voice trailed off.

“Her grandmother?”

“N-no. I think Saoirse had to take her friend home.”

“Don’t tell me her mum is there.”

“We’ve tried to suggest she leave it to us,” Darcy explained quickly. “She won’t hear of it. Keeps insisting Saga is being ridiculous and needs to stop wasting everyone’s time.”

Of course. No one knew how to make an emotionally delicate situation even more unpleasant like Audrey Hudson. She was efficient, cutting, and clinical--perfect traits for scalpels but rather lacking in maternal instinct. “Tell her you just got word the people breaking down the reception are making a whole mess of the affair and if they dawdle any further, we will not be granted the partial refund.”

“Got it.”

Magdalena had called Saga’s mother a myriad of things in her time knowing her--most of which could not be spoken in the presence of children--but begrudgingly the most accurate of all those words was that Audrey was pragmatic. Nothing would whisk her away from attempting to douse an emotional affront to British stoicism than damage control and recovering assets. Even a suggestion of mismanagement would have her occupied for at least the next hour. Well, half-hour. Audrey Hudson was highly efficient.

“That fantastic thinking,” Darcy breathed, meeting Magdalena at the door. “She was gone so quickly, I felt like one of those stage magicians.” She snapped for effect. “Vanished.”

“Sometimes half of being a doctor is distracting the people who aren’t being treated so you can do your job.” Magdalena glanced at the now empty chapel, save for a priest and a few ushers. “Where’s the patient?”

“With Perri,” Darcy said softly. She inclined her head for the other woman to follow. “She let us in once her mum left.”

It was more a closet than a bridal suite, and nearly half of it seemed taken up by the voluminous white skirt trying to swallow her friend. The ballgown didn’t suit her. Nothing about her appearance suited her. 

Her dark brown hair, normally a thick mane of waves, had been straightened and tamed into a French twist. Hugh’s mother insisted it was elegant, her friends quietly agreed it made her look severe. No hair out of place, a veil down her back like a waterfall. She would drown in the rapids of this tulle. Her expression was devoid of all mirth and so it too did not suit the sunshine warmth she’d come to associate with the woman over the past few years.

It had been a slow process since Saga and Hugh had started dating. The sort of development you try to bring up gently, but second-guess yourself into dropping entirely. Yet now, rejected and without the man who had systematically ironed out every quality and quirk that hadn't suited him, she looked hollowed out and unrecognizable.

“Hey babes,” Magdalena whispered as both she and Darcy carefully climbed into the closet, sitting on the floor next to Peregrine.

Saga was hugging her knees to her chest--or at least she was trying to--it was quite a feat given the amount of fabric between her arms and her legs. “Has everyone left?”

Darcy answered cautiously. “Yes.”

Thankfully, this seemed to release tension rather than add to it. “Good.” Saga exhaled a shaky breath. “Good.” Her eyes were rimmed with red, bloodshot and yet inexplicably her makeup had not budged.

Magdalena would have to inquire about products at a more appropriate time. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Saga only managed a shake of her head.

“Do you wanna get drunk and make some cathartic albeit ill-advised aesthetic choices?” Darcy offered. “Dye your hair, cut some fringe, get a tattoo, and any other thing that posh shit never would have let you do?”

It cracked a smile. That was a start.

“That’s not a ‘no’,” Peregrine encouraged. “Old-fashioned sleep-over?”

“Oh gods, where am I going to sleep?” Saga asked as it dawned on her. “I can’t go back to our apartment, what if they’re there?”

“Then we’ll get a shovel,” said Darcy with a growl.

“My place is free,” Magdalena said quickly. At this stage of heartbreak it was unwise to immediately start threatening the perpetrator. Right now their focus had to be triage, and while her apartment was small, other than Saga, she was the only one of them still living in Oxford. “I have some spare jim jams, and some clothes you can borrow.”

“Right,” Peregrine agreed, catching on fast. “Tonight, catharsis, and in the morning brunch, and we can help make a plan of what to do next.”

“You won’t have to do any of it alone, Saga,” Darcy assured.

A three-part harmony of comfort. Magdalena gently rested a hand on Saga’s shoulder, and both Darcy and Peregrine followed suit to make some kind of physical contact with their friend. “We’re going to figure this out, okay?”

Saga was not a stranger to abandonment. Her father had died when she was young. Her mother, with no parental inclination, had left her in the care of her grandmother. Hugh’s desertion would be felt for a time, but she would not let it crush her. She had a way of gathering herself; mannerisms that almost illustrated putting the hurt somewhere it could be managed--somewhere it could be dealt with a little at a time as she was able. And then she smiled. It was a weak, grateful little thing, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Okay.”