Tuesday

Charles' lyrics are trite. Platitudes about love and honour. I can't think of a single way to make the set say something interesting about the topic, even with a theme as rich as the Camelot musical to draw on. I don't understand how this guy became so popular.

I hate him.

Even without all the things he's done. He sucks. This is lazy and boring. If he wrote this himself, he must have mashed potato for brains. If he had a ghostwriter, perhaps they passed the task off to a pigeon who generates lyrics by pecking at a keyboard covered in birdseed.

I doubt he's even seen Camelot. That's not a simple love story. There's treachery. Pathos. Tension. Suspense.

I haven't heard the song actually performed yet, so it's possible it's not the worst song I've ever heard... but I've heard enough of his other music to know the chance that I'll want to listen to it more than once is minuscule.

How do I make anything good with this as my 'inspiration'?

It's fine. It'll be fine. I don't have to make a set that bolsters the song's message.

Maybe I can twist it backwards, so the song works for the set.

If the castle is a ruin, the kingdom a wasteland of broken glass and burned-out houses - bland singing about untroubled love will feel out of place. Like the singer had blinders on, to ignore the world. If I push it, perhaps I can change the entire meaning of the song. I could make it a painful song about willful ignorance in the face of reality. I wonder if the costume designer will work with me on this.

It'd be better if I could make it a song that exposed Charles for the sham of a man he is.

He's a traitor. Like Lancelot. Jaq is more like Arthur. Oblivious to his betrayal. There aren't many other ways that Jaq is like Arthur. He's not brave. He's not strong.

I grumble to myself. I'm not even Guinevere. She's Jaq's inheritance.

The warehouse I've been provided to build the sets in is cavernous. The stage the sets will be for sits, looking lonely and insignificant in a corner. It's a proper proscenium stage, but without the building around it. The decorative front arch barely hides the complex metal frame from which black curtains and all the usual theatrical rigging dangle. The stage itself is a bare, polished wooden platform. It's quite high up off the ground; there's a trap door with a motorised lift at centre-front stage. I tested it. The lift's motor is smooth and quiet, and peering into the void it left behind, I discovered there is more than enough room to stand underneath. I'm not sure if the stage was built especially for this video, or if it was brought here from somewhere else. I want to know where it'll be after this is over. I like it. I'd like to visit it when it's at home.

Workmen distribute a truckload of materials along the far wall. Large plywood panels, pine planks and beams. Buckets of screws and bolts. Laurie follows them from a safe distance, filming the process. We're documenting everything. I told them it was for a 'making of' documentary. I want it for my own security.

Tomorrow I'll have most of my theatre troupe family here, marking out the shapes for the building facades. The flats for the trees and castle walls will follow in the coming days. I even have a rideable wooden horse planned.

So long as I can make up my mind about how things will be painted, I'm certain it'll all be done within a month. I've got plenty of experienced assistants. Everyone's motivated. They're excited about how much they're being paid.

I drum my fingers against the edge of the stage.

Everyone's excited, in general. There is normally a lean period between shows at the Euripedes Theatre. Nobody was expecting this big a windfall in work right now.

I smile grimly to myself.

They don't yet know what this is for. I haven't told them. I just made them sign NDAs about the work. It's easier to obey something like that when you don't know anything worth saying in the first place.

Charles' words keep echoing in my mind.

Am I psycho? It doesn't feel psycho to do any of this. It feels like the right thing to do.

I feel like I'm protecting the innocent as best I can with the tools I've been given.

I guess that's part of being 'psycho'. Not knowing when what you do transgresses normal behaviour, normal morals, or normal logic.

I feel so tired.

I was so relieved when I found that last piece of the puzzle and I could finally work on a plan that would solve everything, but now that the plan is underway, all the anxiety and pain have come back in. What if I missed something, or made a mistake? What if something goes wrong?

I can't let myself succumb. I'm so close to the end.

Please, Frances. Stay alive until Friday. For your son. Then stay alive for another month, for me. For us. I'm getting revenge on Charles for you. Let me rob him for you.

Please.

I stare up into the exposed steel rafters.

Stay alive.

Friday

Wednesday and Thursday pass in a blur. I'm up at dawn, at the warehouse before anyone else, and the last to leave. Cutting, drilling, shaping. It's the only way to keep myself from thinking about Friday.

Now that it is Friday...

I can't sit still. The hairdresser is getting impatient with me. I can't help it. I need my sketchbook. I need a different pen. I need an eraser. I need to refer to that architecture book over there. I'm sure she'd like to strap me to the chair.

Casey, Sal and his brother will be arriving any minute. They're bringing a duplicate wedding certificate.

I've told Jaq I want him to practice once before the fake ceremony. I don't think he suspects this practice certificate will be real. He's still sullen about my rejection. He's just behaving himself because he wants to impress me with how mature he can be when he wants to be.

I want no part of a wedding to him.

Yet, I sit here still.

The hairdresser tags in the makeup artist. He's tall and lean, and he forcibly removes the marker from my hand.

'None of that. You're going to sit still and look straight ahead, or I promise you I'll make you look like an ogre.'

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

'What if I want to look like an ogre?'

He clicks his tongue at me.

I obey.

I can't stop thinking. The costume designer showed me a drawing of Arthur's extremely anachronistic outfit. I asked if they had decided on a colour palette so I could work it into the set. No reply yesterday. No reply today. It's fine. I'm not really ready to paint. I just want to plan.

The choreographer sent me a clip of their intended fight scene - he seems to think Excalibur was a fencing foil. I can make the sword lighter, but it's not going to be easy to swing a regular sword like that, no matter how light it is. I need to send him a test copy of the sword, so he can hold it himself. He needs to feel the heft of it.

Casey steps into the room, eyes already rimmed with tears.

'Oh my god, Jo, you look amazing.'

The makeup artist glares at me, to keep me from replying. He's trying to do something with shading on my lips, I think.

I give Casey a thumbs up, then point to my face with a flourish.

She laughs.

'Okay, missy, you're done.'

I jump out of the chair immediately, rushing back to my notebooks to scribble down a thought about lightening the sword without losing structural integrity.

Casey laughs harder.

'Oh, Jo, never change.'

She hugs me.

I hug back gently, trying not to damage the fragile fabric of my gown.

'I'm sorry, he just wouldn't let me write while he worked on my face.'

'It's okay! I get it.'

'You're the only one in the world who understands me.'

'What about Jaques?'

I shrug.

'Eh.'

She giggles.

We walk out to a sitting room, leaving the makeup artist to pack all his strange and colourful potions in peace.

Sal sits with Lionel and Jaq. His brother, the celebrant, stands by the table. He's already arranging pens by the certificate. I admire the paper. It's lovely.

'All right. Mr. Glarean, if you're ready?'

Jaq approaches the table.

'The minimum legal requirements for a marriage ceremony are very simple. I'll do the bare-bones version for you here.'

I nod. Jaq nods a moment after I do.

'I am a celebrant, legally appointed by the state, with the authority to solemnise marriages. I remind you, in the presence of these witnesses, that marriage, under the law, is a solemn and binding relationship. It is a voluntary, lifelong union between two people, to the exclusion of all others.'

I nod, and again, Jaq nods a moment after I do.

'Mr. Glarean, please repeat after me; I call upon the people present here to witness that I, Jaques Glarean, take Joanne Knight to be my lawful wife.'

He repeats the vow.

'Ms. Knight, please repeat after me; I call upon the people present here to witness that I, Joanne Knight, take Jaques Glarean to be my lawful husband.'

I repeat the vow.

The celebrant points to the certificate.

'Mr. Glarean, please sign here.'

He signs.

'Ms. Knight, please sign here.'

I sign.

'Lionel Glarean, please sign here as a witness.'

He signs.

'Casey Shoreditch, please sign here as a witness.'

She signs despite weeping so much she's struggling to see.

'Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Glarean. You are now husband and wife.'

'That's it?'

Jaq looks shocked.

'That's it.'

'That was a lot shorter than I was expecting. There wasn't even a kiss.'

'Yeah, like I said. Legal minimum. Most people like pomp and ceremony. The version at the hospital will be quite a bit longer.'

I catch Jaq looking longingly at the certificate. I nudge him sharply. He looks guilty.

Behind him, Casey takes the certificate, rolls it, puts it into a small document tube and tucks it into her handbag. She's the only one I trust absolutely. She's the only one I could leave filing the certificate to.

The celebrant claps his hands together.

'Alright. Are we ready for the real show?'

----------------------------------------

The hospital room is as unrecognisable as I'd hoped it would be. Frances had a large, airy room with a nice view of the hospital garden. All to herself. Now it's almost a florist's shop, sans price tags and sales staff. Wall-to-wall flowers.

Frances looks small and frail. Her withered face is pale. She's not doing well.

Isaac isn't much better.

He's gone to the effort of changing into a clean suit, at least. He's made no effort to disguise the dark bags under his eyes, though.

Sal positions himself outside Frances' door, streaming everything he sees to a private channel with his phone camera, waiting for the hand off of the documents.

By the time I'm done putting on my veil, he's already identified possible goons in the hallway.

Inside the room, the photographer makes me uneasy.

He seems just a little too... something. Slick? Greasy? Smug? There's something off about him.

He stays too close to me, watches everything too intently. It's a photographer's job to observe, but this...

I don't like him.

I'm so glad I insisted on making the real copy before we left the estate. Between the photographer, the nurse standing over Frances' bed, Frances, and Isaac, it would have been impossible to make a second copy here. I might have been able to ask for a second one to 'keep at home' if it were only Frances and Isaac. Frances might even have thought it was cute that I wanted to keep a copy.

I don't like that there's a nurse who won't leave the room.

Is Frances that sick, or is she one of Charles' henchmen?

I hate the photographer.

The ceremony for Frances is long and florid. Just like the walls of flowers decorating the room. I can't concentrate. My eyes are constantly drawn to that weasel of a photographer, skulking and snapping photos. I almost miss my cue to repeat the vow.

I catch Frances smiling from the corner of my eye. She must think I'm nervous.

I hope she's reliving happy memories from when she was still in love with Isaac.

Jaq's hands shake when he signs the fake certificate.

Mine are steady.

We're already married.

This is a play.

Frances and Isaac are the witnesses for the fake certificate. The celebrant stands conspicuously close to the window and places the certificate into an ornate document case, then passes it to Sal outside.

Both the photographer and the nurse watch like hawks.

I hate them.

I don't like that Frances is in this hospital.

The celebrant says to Sal;

'Would you hold this? We don't want to misplace it.'

Sal takes the document folder and stands outside with it held openly in his hands, waiting.

I pose for photos with my maid of honour.

Jaq poses for photos with his best man.

I crouch down in my terrible white heels so I can be in a photo with my mother-in-law. She's not happy about being photographed in this state. She tugs on my arm before I stand, quietly telling me to take the marriage certificate directly to be filed.

'Don't worry. It's our first stop once we leave.'

She seems relieved.

Those of us that can leave the hospital step out.

We're in the car park before I get a text from Charles.

> Give the certificate to the man in the red jacket next to the 5k speed sign to your left.

I turn to the left. In doing so, I spot the photographer still behind us.

The man in the jacket looks menacing. He gestures at us.

'Sal? Would you ask that gentleman what he wants?'

He nods and walks over.

The man speaks quietly with Sal, looks over at the photographer, who nods, and then the man holds his hand out.

Sal gives him the certificate.

I feel Jaq wince as the man crumples the page in his hands.

We return to the cars in silence.

Sal and the celebrant get into their own car.

A silver car follows them out of the parking lot.

I pray they're not in any trouble.

Hollis' car is waiting in the street beside the parking lot to collect Casey. He has no idea why he's her chauffeur, though he was a little miffed he wasn't invited to the private ceremony. At least; he was disappointed until I explained it was being held in a hospital room.

They seem to get away without anyone following.

Jaq and I climb into Lionel's car.

Once the doors are shut, I can finally breathe.

Lionel begins to ask about the man in red. I shush him.

'No explanations. Not yet. Drive.'

We're being followed too. This car is a dark navy blue.

'Do you see the blue car behind us?'

'Yeah?'

'That's why we can't talk.'

'Why do we have a tail?'

I glare at Lionel.

'What did I just say?'

We drive back to the estate. The car stays behind us until we pull into the driveway.

'Okay, we're here. Why do we have a tail?'

I hold up a finger to my lips, indicating silence.

'Why are we being quiet here?'

I lead them out into the garden - a nice open spot where we can see anyone approaching.

'Because Pitch is paranoid that I'm actually marrying you. He has people everywhere, watching us. He might even have bugged the car.'

'You sound paranoid.'

'Really? Because I got an angry call from him about our 'secret wedding' not 10 minutes after I let Isaac know the wedding was set for Friday. I don't think Isaac would've told him, so someone else at the hospital must have been eavesdropping.'

'What? Why didn't you tell us?'

'Because if I said anything, one or both of you would have done something to make him even more suspicious.'

They both look upset. I don't care if they're insulted by my bluntness. I don't have the mental bandwidth to deal with their delicate feelings right now.

'He had people inside the hotel stealing my garbage so he could rifle through it. He had people following me around the city, taking photos of me. It's not unreasonable to suspect he has someone working here feeding him information about my activities and whereabouts inside the estate.'

'But why are they watching Mother? Isn't he just jealous about you being with Jaq?'

I've cornered myself. I have to explain it all now.

Oh my god, I cannot trust these foolish boys to keep it quiet.

'I can't risk explaining more here.'

They both look terrified.

Good.

My phone buzzes in my tiny little pink handbag.

> Certificate submitted successfuly.

I think I might die of relief.