The Last Party
SMALL children dressed in matching white outfits pranced down the streets, passing the flyers and yelling the news: “There’s going to be a wedding!”
“Between Kurt Ozhorn, third rank royal healer, and fair daughter of the Olzon family, Sophie Olzon!”
“It’ll be all-you-can-eat, a grand buffet!”
“There’ll be drinks enough to lose your way!”
“Tell your friends and family near…”
“It’s free for all, so gather here!”
The girl leading the procession—bowl-cut hair and clear blue eyes—shouted so loudly her soft, doughy cheeks flushed bright red.
The commotion drew a crowd; they all took hold of a flyer.
Printed on it were the time, date, and location of the feast, along with a simple message: invite whomever you like—everyone was welcome. It was written plainly enough for even the simplest townsfolk to understand.
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ON the day of the feast, the entire Olzon household stood frozen at the venue’s entrance, gaping at two enormous golden crocodile statues.
They were from Annie. Sophie had written, hoping she might attend, but court duties made that impossible. In her place came a parade of gifts—among them, the statues.
Not just statues, as it turned out. Wind both their tails and let go, and they played a charming, harmonized tune.
They were music boxes. Very large, very golden, and very crocodilian music boxes.
The Olzons, as mentioned, were speechless.
Struck dumb by the extravagance. By the absurdity.
So much time, money, and effort poured into this great big triumph of excess.
Annie had written:
Warmest congratulations on your wedding, Sophie. I am truly sorry I cannot be there to celebrate with you in person.
In accordance with my father’s unwavering dedication to tradition (and against my better taste), the statues have been sent along. Please rest assured—they are very much his doing, not mine. Should you find them too unsightly, feel free to convert them into gold at your earliest convenience. I won’t take offense.
As for my own gift, I’ve sent a selection of the finest fruits and flowers from our homeland. I trust you’ll find them more agreeable.
My father, regrettably, remains in the most stubborn good health imaginable, so it seems our little promise must remain unfulfilled for the time being. Still—don’t forget, will you?
Your fiancé is a healer, is he? Since he comes with your endorsement, I shall withhold all commentary and trust entirely in your judgment. You’ve never led me wrong before.
You’re welcome to visit whenever you please. I’ll see to it that you receive the full royal treatment.
Yours, with fondness,
Princess Annie of Crocodilia.
The tone was casual—too casual for a letter from a princess. Sophie could practically see that toothy, crocodilian grin as she read.
Knock, knock, came the sound from an already open door.
Sophie turned—and immediately smiled.
The man who stepped in stopped cold at the sight of her.
A beat.
Then, wordlessly, he crossed the room.
He took her white-gloved hands in his.
“Such a beautiful thing,” he murmured. “I shudder to make it mine.”
“Then will you stop?” Sophie asked.
“Not in this life. Not in the next.”
He dropped to one knee.
“Ms. Sophie. Will you marry me?”
“Of course, I will, Kurt Ozhorn”
He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.
Sherlotte and Martha dabbed at their eyes. Claire and Emma just smiled, watching over the newly minted couple.