Giant Men and Violent Women

And Here We Go

ASHLEY

I'm a Lucky Devil. Church bells rang in our honor in every city and town in New Hampshire. We walked outside of St. Bartholomew's doors and were greeted with a loud applause by the prisoners.

"We're married," I whispered in Presley Ann's ear on the church steps.

"We are," she said back.

And that was it.

Gram, Dainty, and my mother whisked Presley Ann away. She had to change out of her bell-ringing gown and into a ball gown, according to Darling tradition. But that was the only tradition she honored.

Presley Ann wanted an outdoor reception—she said indoor parties were starting to bore her—so that's what she was given.

Outside, under the stars, in the dead of winter. Here, on the lawn of The Governor's mansion, there are heaters set up every ten feet to keep guests warm. A floor was laid down for people to waltz around to the sound of the twenty-five-piece jazz orchestra and singer, who are all convened on stage. She wanted her reception to sound like Glenn Miller hadn't gone missing over the English Channel during World War II and was still around at the age of well over one hundred, creating some of the best swing jazz known to man. That's what she got.

She wanted the prisoners to wear tuxes instead of Slave Grays because she didn't want to be reminded of convicts while she danced. Tuxes with serial numbers on them were shipped in from Boston.

She wanted her cook, Bett, to be the head cook and have a bevy of minor prisoners as her crew to boss around. That's what she got.

Bett is currently in The Governor's kitchen, looking over the shoulders of every prisoner within a hand's reach. (Irritating Pope.)

She wanted her prisoner Nona to arrange the flowers so Presley Ann's spirit would be enlightened, and her truth would be told, so that's what happened. Nona is the reason there is an entire wall placed off to the side, covered from beginning to end in white rosebuds. It's become the preferred backdrop for all the guests who are having their pictures taken in front of it.

She wanted her driver, Boxer, to be the head bartender. So, he is. Every drink that you can possibly think of, Boxer's crew knows how to make. In fact, when you head to the bar, for fun, they'll ask how you're feeling and then make a drink to help you feel better or even better. Everyone's having a good time with that. Great Aunt went to the bar after already having a few drinks and told a bartender that she was feeling slutty. The bartender made her a drink to make her feel even sluttier.

So, as Great Aunt told it, "Now, I feel like a downright stank." Everyone's having a blast.

"The bill is on your desk," Pop just told me.

But I haven't even spoken to my bride yet.

She's a star now after the Boston Society tribute.

I stand by the band's stage, and I see her surrounded by a group of men and women, smiling, nodding in laughter. This looks familiar. She's dressed in a black velvet gown, and its skirt is just as puffy as her bell-ringing dress. It's sleeveless, showcasing toned arms, and it cinches her midriff, showcasing a solid waist. This dress is no doubt for the people of New Hampshire so they might see that she is fit, not just thin. There is a difference. She is brute, not bones. She is no princess; she is a queen. Her hair looks the same as it did at the bell-ringing, but now, she wears emerald earrings that are stealing the show. Everyone who walks past them admires them from afar. She looks the part, and she's also acting the part.

Presley Ann is playing the part of the fun-loving enchantress to a T. There is no doubt in my mind that her mother and Hyacinth talked to her, showed her the power that could be hers—and theirs—if she just went with the tide instead of against it. She's playing her part well now. Better than Louisiana ever could.