Jane awoke after a nightmare-filled four hours of sleep to an empty bed. She reached over to touch Malcolm’s side; it was cold. Her compassion for him from the previous night evaporated, and anger flashed in her veins.

So he tells me this big secret because it nearly killed me, and now he’s gone again? She struggled out from under the red-and-gold duvet and headed for the shower. And now I get a full day of wedding planning with Grendel’s mother and I have to throw her a party tonight on top of it. Not to mention that she would have to do all of those things with a throbbing headache, but she had no one to blame but herself for that . . . and maybe Maeve, just a little bit.

Jane had expected Lynne’s enthusiasm for wedding errands to wane following the mysterious argument that she had overheard, but Lynne was still going full-speed ahead. And dragging Jane—tired, bored, and confused—along in her considerable wake.

Even on the morning of the Dorans’ cocktail party at the MoMA, Jane hadn’t been able to wriggle her way out of wedding planning. She had tried to beg off, using the vague excuse of “last-minute arrangements,” but Lynne’s eyes had narrowed dangerously.

“Something was left until the last minute?” she purred in what Jane knew by now was a deceptively mild tone. “What on earth would have been left until today?”

Faced with the choice between looking incompetent and spending the morning with Lynne, Jane reluctantly decided that she had to pop a few Advil and opt for the latter.

First on the agenda was gown-shopping (“Monique Lhuillier,” Lynne had said, staring pointedly at Jane’s hips, “and maybe Marchesa?”), which Jane knew was supposed to be the most enjoyable part of the planning. But after ten minutes, it was clear that it most certainly would not be.

“Absolutely not,” Lynne snapped when the salesgirl, Andie, appeared with a dress that seemed to weigh less than thirty pounds.

“I love the waistline,” Jane interceded. “And the cap sleeves.” But the salesgirl vanished again without even looking her way, and Jane sighed heavily. The dress was the one thing that she cared about, the one battle she had decided to pick. Things weren’t going anything like the way she had pictured them, though, and she was beginning to worry. Was it possible that, somewhere between the caterer and the photographer and the brass band, Jane had lost her backbone for good? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; she could remember how to assert herself. She had to. “Lynne, I feel like we have different ideas about what would look best. Maybe if I could try on one of the—”

“Perfect!” Lynne trilled, and Jane broke off, confused. Was it really just that easy? But Lynne’s abrupt approval became all too clear when Jane turned to see Andie struggling under the weight of what looked like two of Carrie Bradshaw’s wedding dresses rolled into one.

“No,” Jane said reflexively.

“Nonsense,” Lynne’s snake-charmer voice drawled. “You were just saying how it’s impossible to tell without seeing the dress on.”

Oh, sure, now she listens. How could Lynne stay so cool and polished while being so crafty, conniving, and stubborn? It might have been awe-inspiring, if it hadn’t been so thoroughly annoying.

“And Jane, dear, you should really nip that dreadful ring-twirling habit in the bud,” Lynne said, furrowing her arched (and perfectly tweezed) eyebrows at Jane.

Jane clasped her hands behind her back—she hadn’t even realized she’d been doing it again. She tried to communicate her desperation to the salesgirl with her eyes, but Andie seemed completely unaware of the conflict unfolding in front of her. “The sample isn’t in your size miss but I would be more than happy to clip it so that you can see an approximation,” she announced in an inflectionless monotone. There was no obvious reason to think that she wasn’t actually speaking to Jane, but somehow it was clear all the same.

“That would be lovely, dear,” Lynne smirked, shoving Jane lightly toward the curtained-off section.

Jane fought the urge to shake one or both of them while shouting “I’m the bride, damn it!” and allowed the girl to maneuver the massive pile of multilayered skirts over her head.

Once it was more or less on, Jane waited for the humiliating clipping process to begin, but the salesgirl appeared to have had a change of heart. “Actually, this one has a corset back”—Of course it does!—“so maybe if I just lace that loosely enough . . . there.”

All of the air was expelled from Jane’s lungs at once. “So apparently ‘loose’ is a relative term?” she grunted.

“Ooh,” the girl cooed automatically, seemingly oblivious to Jane’s labored breathing. “I’m sure your mother will love this one!”

“Mother-in-law,” Jane corrected sternly. “To-be.” And only if she doesn’t send me screaming for the hills in the next month or so, not to mention that Malcolm will have to take some time out of his busy schedule to actually show up to the church. She glared at her reflection in the three-way mirror: she looked like a Renaissance fair on steroids. Weren’t puff sleeves still “out”?

Closing the curtain separating them from Lynne more tightly, Jane lowered her voice. “I was leafing through your catalog, actually, and I saw this really pretty sheath I was hoping to try. In fact, there were a couple of styles that I loved.” She held out a scrap of paper where she had jotted down four style numbers, but Andie didn’t even glance at it.

“I really don’t think that any of those would be formal enough for the event Mrs. Doran described,” she droned. Is there even a human being in there? “You’ll definitely be more comfortable in a more traditional gown.” With that declaration, she flung the curtain open, and Jane was treated to the sight of Lynne in a near-swoon.

“I think we’re getting closer!” she trilled happily. “But I’d love to see something in a whiter white. She’s so pale,” she added, a crease forming on her forehead. “Practically monochromatic. And now that I see it on, I’m not sold on the seed pearls. More of the same Alençon lace on the bustier panel would be better, I think.”

“I absolutely agree,” Andie breathed, showing some signs of life now that she was speaking to someone other than Jane. She practically skipped out of the room, leaving Jane to glare balefully after her, still trapped in her Disney-princess nightmare of a dress.

Enough is enough. Jane drew herself up to her full height and took advantage of the fact that the many layers of crinoline made her as wide as she was tall. “We need to talk,” she declared in her most authoritative tone.

Lynne’s eyebrow nearly shot off her forehead entirely, but she gestured for Jane to continue.

“I really appreciate your taste and input,” Jane told her firmly, “and for the most part I’ve been happy to do whatever you suggest. But a woman’s wedding dress is a very important and personal thing, and I don’t want to rush the decision.” That sounds better than “Back the hell off, harpy,” doesn’t it?

Lynne blinked. She seemed to be struggling with this new and confusing information. For a moment, Jane expected a tirade; she could practically see it forming on Lynne’s peach-lipsticked mouth. Lynne’s hands clenched the pleats of her canary-colored Ralph Lauren skirt briefly, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, released. “Of course. I only want you to be happy,” she said so warmly that, for a moment, Jane assumed that she had misheard.

Andie bustled back in, loaded down with books of fabric swatches. Lynne turned her head smoothly. “I believe that my daughter-in-law asked about a dress you brought out. The one with the cap sleeves.”

“Oh.” Andie stopped short. An awkward beat passed while Lynne stared pointedly, and then the girl caught on. “Right, of course.” She dropped the books awkwardly on a bench and all but fled from the room, returning seconds later with the dress in question.

Jane grinned triumphantly as she slipped the A-line sheath over her head. Finally, finally, something was going her way.