“The ceremony order,” Bellatrix continued, producing a second sheet. “Opening procession. The Crown enters first with his mother on his arm.”

“Traditional,” Petra confirmed.

“He walks me to my seat. Kisses my hand. I sit. He proceeds to the altar.”

“Standard.”

“Then the Mother’s Blessing. He kneels. I place both hands on his head and speak the ancestral words over him while the orchestra plays.”

“How long is the Mother’s Blessing, Your Grace?”

“Seven minutes.”

“Seven.”

“It is a thorough blessing, Petra. I have a lot to say to the ancestors about my son and I will not be rushed.”

Petra resumed buffing Avalon with the focused dedication of a woman who remained neutral.

“Of course. And then the bride enters?” she asked.

“After the Maternal Reflection.”

“The Maternal Reflection.”

“A brief pause following the blessing where the mother is given a moment to compose herself before the ceremony continues. It is an ancient Drakenfell custom.”

That was a partial truth. It had been ancient for approximately forty-five seconds, which was how long ago Bellatrix had invented it. Semantics.

“How long is the Maternal Reflection?”

“Four minutes.”

“Your Grace, I have worked in this court for eleven years and I have never heard of the Maternal Reflection.”

“That is because you have not been to a proper wedding planned by a professional. After the reflection, the bride enters. Standard processional. She reaches the altar. The officiant begins the rites. Then the Parting of the Hearth.”

“The Parting of the Hearth.”

“The mother of the groom lights a candle representing the home she built. The groom lights a candle representing the home he is building. Together, they merge the flames into a single candle, symbolizing the continuation of the maternal legacy into the new union.”

“That sounds like a unity candle. Which is traditionally done by the couple.”

“It is NOT a unity candle. It is a Hearth candle. Completely different. The couple does their own candle later. This one is mine.”

“So there are two candle ceremonies.”

“There are as many candle ceremonies as the occasion requires, Petra.”

The differences between a Hearth candle and a unity candle at a wedding was, as far as Petra could determine, the participants. She nodded the way soldiers nod. Yes, the mission was a bit unorthodox. Maybe slightly insane. But Petra was going to complete it and do a damn good job at it.

“And after the Parting of the Hearth?”

“The vows.”

“Between the couple?”

“Between ALL relevant parties.”

Onyx rolled onto his side and sneezed, which was his contribution to the wedding planning.

Petra’s hand stopped. “Your Grace.”

“The Maternal Vow is a cornerstone of Drakenfell wedding tradition. The groom makes a vow to his bride. The bride makes a vow to the groom. And the mother makes a vow to both of them, signifying her ongoing role in the union.”

Petra’s left hand kept buffing Avalon on autopilot. “How long is the Maternal Vow?”

“Shorter than the blessing. Five minutes.”

“Your Grace, that is longer than most couples’ vows combined.”

“Most couples have not raised Dexmon Drakenfell from infancy. I have earned my five minutes. I have earned TEN. I am being generous.”

“And after the vows?”

“The rings. Standard exchange. Then the Letting Go.”

“That sounds emotional.”

This was Petra being diplomatic. What it sounded like was a hostage transfer but she kept that part to herself.

“It is DEVASTATING, Petra. The mother places her son’s hand into the bride’s hand, symbolizing the transfer. I practiced it this morning. I wept. Twice. The second time was involuntary.”

Onyx and Avalon both lifted their heads at ’I wept’ and tilted them in the same direction at the same angle, producing a synchronized head-tilt that Petra found more unsettling than the Maternal Vow.

“And then the officiant pronounces them?” Petra asked this with the careful optimism of someone hoping to reach the actual wedding portion of the wedding.

“After the Mother’s Final Word.”

“There is a FINAL Word?”

“A brief address. Thirty seconds. Forty at most. I simply look at my son and say what needs to be said before he belongs to someone else. It is a MOMENT, Petra. The guests will weep. I will weep. Dexmon will pretend he is not weeping and I will know he is weeping because he weeps exactly like his father, silently, with his jaw doing that thing, and it will destroy me and it will be the most beautiful thirty seconds of the entire ceremony.”

“Forty seconds.”

“Thirty to forty. Depending on whether I need the Maternal Reflection again.”

Petra’s hand did not stop buffing. It did slow a hair. “A second Maternal Reflection.”

“Grief comes in waves, Petra. I cannot schedule waves.”

“Your Grace, if we add the second Reflection, plus the Blessing, plus the Hearth candle, plus the Maternal Vow, plus the Final Word, your total stage time is approximately twenty-one minutes.”

“And?”

“The bride’s total stage time is approximately two.”

“Petra, she and I are not the same. She is new. I am the bedrock holding this family together.”

Petra’s expression did not change. Her soul, however, would never be the same.

“The wedding is three months out,” Bellatrix continued, fanning the invitations across the table. “Which presents a problem. Three months is a long time. The court’s attention span is shorter than Onyx’s legs. We need something in between. An event. Something visible. Something that reminds every noble house on the continent that Bellatrix Drakenfell is the beating heart of Drakenfell’s social calendar and the beating cannot be divorced.”

“A gala?”

“Overdone.”

“A tournament?”

“Tiberon’s domain. He would take credit. Unacceptable.”

“A charity banquet?”

“We already did the orphanage. Repeating charity looks desperate. Charity is a one-time weapon. You fire it once, you hit the target, you move on. Multiple charities suggest you are trying too hard, and trying too hard is the scent of a woman losing.”

Bellatrix steepled her fingers. Onyx rolled onto his stomach and rested his chin on her knee, his gold eyes watching her think with the patient adoration of a dragon who considered her thought process a spectator sport.

“A ball. Perhaps. Write that down, Petra.”

Petra wrote: Ball. Perhaps.

“Actually.” Bellatrix looked at the ceiling. “A ball is self-serving and the self-serving is obvious. We need something that looks generous. Something that looks like it is for other people while being entirely for me.”

Both dragons gargoyle’d on cue, twin heads cocked at identical angles, frozen in a tableau of synchronized judgment.