Trent twirled us so my back was to them, and I looked at him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell them about Jenks,” I said.

His eyes flicked to mine and away. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

A chuckle escaped me, and I found it did more than anything else to wash away the remnants of adrenaline. “Your entire species has been shunning pixy contact for forty years, and you don’t think it matters? I think you were afraid to tell them.”

Trent returned his eyes to mine. “No. It was for the entertainment value.”

I believed it. He must be bored out of his ever-loving mind. “Trent. Is there something about pixies that you like?”

His hand on my waist pinched in warning. “Excuse me?”

I felt a stir of confirmation. “I’m just curious if there’s an interspecies bond or something that you’ve been neglecting—”

“No.”

That had been way too fast, and I smiled. He liked pixies but wasn’t going to admit it. “It just seems as if—”

“No.”

His movements went stiff, and I backed off before he danced me over to Al. “Are you ready for Sunday?” I said, changing the subject. “Wow, married in the basilica. I never thought that would happen.”

“Me neither.” His voice was distant and emotionless. “It should be quite a day.”

I ran my gaze down him. “I bet you wanted to get married outside, huh? Under the trees in the moonlight?”

Trent’s ears reddened.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “You do, don’t you!”

His roving eyes never met mine. “It’s her wedding, not mine.”

Needling Trent was one of my favorite things, and thinking that Al’s showing up qualified as trouble and a pay increase, I shrugged, pleased that the day would end with money in my pocket. “I don’t think it’s her wedding either.”

We had made a full circuit, and I was looking at Ellasbeth again. Al had captured her attention, and knowing that Trent didn’t like his back to them, I moved freely under his direction until he could see them. I wasn’t fooling myself that he loved her, but he clearly took his duties as husband seriously. “Sure am glad I’m not royalty,” I muttered. “I wouldn’t want to have to bump uglies with someone I can’t stand. On a regular basis. And no one else.

“Ow!” I exclaimed, trying to yank my fingers from Trent but finding them caught. Then I colored, realizing what I’d said. “Oh…sorry,” I stammered, meaning it. “That was insensitive.”

Trent’s frown turned into a sly smirk. “Bump uglies?” he said, eyes on the table behind me. “You are a font of gutter slang, Rachel. We must do this again.”