He passed the priest bickering with the Erikell insurance assessor—come to do an initial report for when the church demanded payment on their policy—and entered the main dome. The one open section of glass still swung on its hinges up above, and the tipped water tower—its legs on the other side had kept it from crashing down completely—still blocked out much of the sky.

He passed overturned benches, discarded Marewill petals, and general refuse. Water dripped, the room’s only sound other than the echoing voice of the priest. Wax squished his way up to the dais. Steris sat on its edge, wet dress plastered to her body, strands of hair that had escaped from her wedding braids sticking to the sides of her face. She sat with arms crossed on her knees, staring at the floor.

Wax sat down next to her. “So, next time a flood is dumped on our heads, I’ll try to remember that jumping upward is a bad idea.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and squeezed it out.

“You tried to get us backward too. It merely wasn’t fast enough, Lord Waxillium.”

He grunted. “Looks like simple structural failure. If it was instead some kind of assassination attempt… well, it was an incompetent one. There wasn’t enough water in there to be truly dangerous. The worst injury was to Lord Steming, who fell and knocked his head when scrambling off his seat.”

“No more than an accident then,” Steris said. She flopped backward onto the dais, the carpet letting out a soft squish.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She sighed. “Do you ever wonder if perhaps the cosmere is out to overwhelm you, Lord Waxillium?”

“The cosmere? You mean Harmony?”

“No, not Him,” Steris said. “Just cosmic chance rolling the dice anytime I pass, and always hitting all ones. There seems to be a poetry to it all.” She closed her eyes. “Of course the wedding would fall apart. Several tons of water falling through the roof? Why wouldn’t I have seen that? It’s so utterly outlandish it had to happen. At least the priest didn’t get murdered this time.”

“Steris,” Wax said, resting a hand on her arm. “We’ll fix this. It will be all right.”

She opened her eyes, looking toward him. “Thank you, Lord Waxillium.”

“For what, exactly?” he asked.

“For being nice. For being willing to subject yourself to, well, me. I understand that it is not a pleasant concept.”

“Steris…”

“Do not think me self-deprecating, Lord Waxillium,” she said, sitting up and taking a deep breath, “and please do not assume I’m being morose. I am what I am, and I accept it. But I am under no illusions as to how my company is regarded. Thank you. For not making me feel as others have.”

He hesitated. How did one respond to something like that? “It’s not as you say, Steris. I think you’re delightful.”

“And the fact that you were gritting your teeth as the ceremony started, hands gripping as tightly as a man dangling for his life from the side of a bridge?”