Wedding Night
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Wedding Night
The wedding has been going on for nine days and is showing no signs of finishing soon.
Maurice claps Vernard on the shoulder, causing him to choke on the ham-in-own-jelly he was eating at the table. “Ho there cousin, got here at last I see.”
“I have been present for two weeks already,” protests Vernard. “I took the auxiliary auguries, reading the flight of the swallows before the ceremony began. They promised fine weather and good fortune.” He waves his arm about to point out the rows of tables in the courtyard, now in shadow, previously baking under the hot summer sun. Unfortunately a fleck of aspic flies from his fork, disappearing down the back of Matron Delinda’s dress, causing her to squirm in her seat.
“I must have missed you old chap.” He sits down next to him and picks up a pheasant wing that Vernard had been particularly saving. “How is your mother?”
“She dances the rites.” Vernard points through the row of trees to the open flagstones. A line of guests have been marking out the steps in shifts, sometimes accompanied by a band, occasionally by a single person clapping time. For now a drum and harp play. “And…” he indicates others, singing, praying, dancing. Implictly he questions why Maurice was not with them, has leisure to talk.
“My mother has poor knees, they crack and snap, she takes care of offerings at the altar.” Obliviously Maurice turns to the central spot. “And the bride…”
“She has not made her arrival.” As they watch one of the kneeling guests keels over and is carried away by two ushers. Above, on the raised plinth, the white clad figure lies, the groom spreadeagled in supplication at her feet.
“It has been a long time. Very long. Do you think…”
“A long visit to the underworld foretells a prosperous, healthy, long marriage,” says Vernard firmly. “I am an augur. I know this.” He looks out, hiding all his doubt, at the bride in her shroud, unmoving, unbreathing.
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