Eileen Wilks: Cyncerely Yours

“All right.” Cynna faced the Rhej. “Tell her—“

“She can hear you, dear.”

“I f eel funny talking to the air,” Cynna muttered, but turned to face that small, floating ice chest. “Here’ s the first part of the deal, Mrs. Ryerson. I've promised Father Michaels that I'll pray for my mother every day for a month.” She glanced briefly at the priest. “He says it’ s almost impossible to stay bitter at someone you keep praying for. You were Catholic. You know about promising a priest something.”

The Rhej smiled. “She chuckled over that.”

“Right.” Cynna nodded, resolute. “The rest of the deal is that you agree to let Father Michaels give you the Last Rites— well, he can't do the whole deal because you can't take the Eucharist, but he says it won't matter. You let him do that, then you'll be prepared for forgiveness yourself and can, uh, go on.”

The Rhej tilted her head, then smiled slowly. " She agrees. And she' s very happy about your offer, Father.”

Father Michaels withdrew with the Rhej, who would respond aloud for Mrs. Ryerson. While they were busy, Rule and Lily went in search of the missing wedding guests, hoping to bring a few, at least, back to the ceremony now that Mika was calm again. Cynna waited in the circle of Cullen's arm. “This has to be the weirdest wedding on record.”

“We wouldn’t want to be accused of the ordinary.” He tucked a hand below her chin, tilting her face towards him. “Are you all right with what you agreed to?”

She nodded slowly. “Praying can't hurt. And, well, I like to believe I never think of my mom, but I do. I just push it aside, you know? So now I'll have to think about her, but maybe that's good.” Her hand crept to the hard lump of her stomach that used to be flat. “Maybe this is a good time to let go of some stuff .”

“Good, then. That's good. And our wedding isn't ruined,” he informed her. “Altered a bit, that’ s all. Not ruined.”

She saw the trace of anxiety hiding in those brilliant blue eyes and smiled. “No. Not ruined at all.”

My dust! Mika “shouted” and leaped into the air , his wings unfurling quick as a thought. He threw himself aloft — and dived, catching the Styrofoam chest in his jaws as it fell.

With Mrs. Ryerson gone, the rest of the wedding may have seemed anticlimactic to their guests, most of whom did return for the ceremony. Not to Cynna. Ghosts and angry dragons were nowhere near as scary as the point when Father Michaels finished his homily, turned to Cullen, and asked him the “till death do you part” question.

They were holding hands, facing each other. Cullen smiled slowly and said simply, vehemently, “Yes.”

Not “I do.” Just “yes.” That nearly sent her into giggles, but then it was her turn.

“Do you, Cynna Weaver— ack!” Father Michaels jumped back.

A short, bald orange female in a fuchsia robe, turquoise tights, and a yellow belt studded with emeralds had popped into existence beside the priest. “Am I late?” Gan asked anxiously. “Did I miss anything?”

Cynna couldn't hold back her laughter. “Nothing important,” she managed. “We’ re just getting to the good part.” Which was true in so many ways.

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