Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Okay, I'm a gonna sleep in tomorrow if I can. If I can't, I'm going to be working on the book. SOOOOOOOO before I go to bed, I'm setting out the bowls and the box. You can get your milk out of the fridge for yourself.

and

WELCOME TO ANOTHER SERIAL

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I should've known better.

I might want to know who had pulled the strings to tie Celeste and I together. Celeste might want to know. But the ultimate boss, Alara did not want to tell us. I deduced this from the fact that she, um, hadn't. Even when we both requested a transfer. Oh to hell with that. DEMANDED a transfer. So I should've known that trying to beard her in her hotel would be pointless. Then again, I've been known to beat my head against brick walls on occasion. Generally only succeeding in damaging said walls. Not that I'm hard-headed.

Alara didn't see us. She had her lackey/secretary stall us. Long enough that we had to leave or be late to the final fitting for the gowns for the wedding. We wouldn't get a chance to talk after either. Immediately following the fitting was the oooh baby, bachlorette party. We were doing this because it was what American humans do. And we had been trained to be the perfect American humans.

Now tomorrow Alara'd be at the wedding as an honored guest. She couldn't not be without insulting the bigwigs. If I timed it right, and confronted her in front of people, I might just get an answer. I also might get sent on the worst possible assignment.

No. Not possible. Even if Earth was cushy, working with Celeste is the worst possible assignment.

It was exactly dusk when the two of us walked into a conference room that the seamstress had converted into a fitting area. The four other bridesmaids were already there, wearing full length silk beaded gowns in a shade the brochure had optimistically referred to as amethyst, but was actually more of an eggplant/purple. I strode up to the table, grabbed the garment bag with my dress and pulled down the zipper to reveal. . .

The most hideously yellow dress you have ever seen. I mean, really, seriously, hideous. Not only was it that lurid, glow-in-the-dark-fluorescent yellow generally used for safety vests, it had ruffles, and lace, in LAYERS. AND it was made for someone of considerably more amazonian proportions.

Yellow eggplant arriving dusk, indeed.

"Oh . . . my . . . GOD."

"What's the matter?" Celeste strode up to the table, and if I'd had any doubt that this was her doing it was dispelled by the wicked little smile that crossed her lips for just an instant before she suppressed it.

"Oh NO!" She gave a fairly credible howl of horrified dismay. "But this isn't POSSIBLE? What will we DO? The wedding's TOMORROW!"

Which was, of course, my cue to step down so as not to ruin her "big day." Which I really didn't mind doing. I did, however, wonder just exactly how much she'd had to pay the tailor to make this little snafoo happen. Definitely less than she would've had to pay me to just say no. But then there would've been a stink. This way nobody was to blame. Just one of those things.

Yeah. Right.

Still, I was more than happy to do my very best martyr imitation. And if it was just a trifle overacted, well, only one or two of the people in attendance was bright enough to notice. And they wouldn't say anything.

My "phone" beeped and twitched in my pocket. I pulled it out and was rewarded with another message: Adonis showers death.

Great. Peachy. What in the hell was that supposed to mean?