“If this wedding doesn’t start soon, it’s going to become a full-on orgy of love,” Uta says from beside Ava. Then raising an eyebrow, she leans in to kiss Faust.

Bran seems set on ignoring the PDA happening around him, which makes me grin. How he managed to romance his ex into having two children with him, I can’t even guess. As Gaspard strides to take his place at the front of the chapel, I hear Bran murmur, “Just in time.”

The string quartet lowers their instruments, and the congregation falls silent. Everyone cranes their heads toward the back of the room. After a beat, the music starts back up—a joyful melody—and three figures make their way up the aisle. In the center is Kate’s grandmother, Mamie, wearing what looks like a Chanel suit in pink tweed with matching heels so high they could trip a supermodel. She walks with chin held high, as if striding through a room full of undead superheroes is not only her right but their privilege.

On either side are Vincent and Arthur. They wear matching dark suits with brightly-patterned bow ties. Arthur is breaking tradition, wearing modern garb to his own wedding instead of medieval. His shoulder-length blond hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. And Vincent? Well, Vincent looks like a Greek god, his thick black hair flowing back in long, shiny waves.

They look happy enough to burst right out of their suits. As they near our aisle, Vincent looks over, sees Siaka next to me, and gives me a cheeky wink. Over the last month, he’s made up for not accepting me initially by doing everything he can to show me I’m a valued member of the kindred.

As they approach the first set of pews, they let Mamie take her seat, then proceed to stand on either side of Gaspard. He can barely acknowledge them; his gaze fixed on the back of the chapel.

Siaka leans in and whispers. “I can’t believe that both the head of France’s bardia and probably the oldest guy in the room are both nervous as...” He searched for the right term.

“As grooms on their wedding day?” I suggest.

“Exactly!”

Siaka’s right. Vincent is fiddling with his cufflinks, and Arthur is fidgeting with his collar. You’d never guess both of them had died dozens, maybe hundreds of times in horrific circumstances, bravely offering themselves up to pain and mutilation.

But I forget all about them when the quartet starts the Wedding March. All of us rise out of our seats and turn.