Kincade ran his hand over his shaven face; his thumb rubbed against the octopus scar. "Well, time to play gentlemen for the family," Kincade stated loudly to nobody in particular. He was reaching over the fence to pluck a rose for the label of his woolen sailor's dark blue coat. Kincade realized he wore a sailor's outfit with canvas pants. At his hip, he had a knife, the same one he had used to secure freedom, and on his feet, simple black shoes favored again by the working sailor on shore leave. The thought that he would be great in working-class clothing made him smile; his Mother would have a blue fit.
He was opening the gate and stepping into the property proper, and the sound of music playing in the garden. A string quartet, if his ears were to be believed, and a large amount of chatter from a group of people. Edging around the corner of the building, Kincade saw the collected group sitting on white chairs at a wedding.
"Who has a wedding outside of a church?" Kincade said to himself, and then the thought struck him: it was his sister. She had finally returned and was in trouble, the trouble that meant the church would not marry them. Indeed, they would not be advertising this horrid family secret to so many people in the garden of their homes.
Raising up on his toes, Kincade strained to see the groom. The bride was standing before a priest, and God be praised for his mercy. The two of them stood before a Priest, not a Judge. And she did not appear to be overly large. Someone had made a reasonable donation to the local diocese. When recognition struct Kincade, "Hutchens, that pretty boy is marrying my sister?" Kincade thought to himself. Oh, well, at least he has some money."
The priest looked to the bride, raised his palm hand, and she lifted her veil, then asked the question, the one that is to be never answered, not good ever comes from this answer.
"DOES ONE HERE HAVE REASON FOR THIS MARRIAGE NOT TO TAKE PLACE?" The man called in a strong, clear voice. Hutchens and Emma turned to face the stacked, no chance of objection here, guests.
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But it was not Emma; it had been several years, but that was not Emma. A knife jammed into his chest. Amelia cut his heart out. His fiancé was marrying Hutchens, that ungrateful, self-centered bastard. Kincade stepped forward, marched down the isle, and proclaimed in an angry and blusterous voice, "Arn't we engaged anymore! AMELIA!"
"You are alive, old man," Hutchens exclaimed. Followed by, "Good to see you alive; that is a bit of a scar. Is it a cephalopod? We are a bit busy at the moment." Hutchens continued firing sentences like fireworks, reaching out a hand in greeting, smiling. Kincade punched him in the face, dropping him onto the grass. Behind him, he could hear his overly dramatic mother fake swoon and his father call out,
"Here now settle own, sir". The strange thought rushed through Kincade's mind. Sir? Why not, Son?
Spinning to face Amelia, she looked at him momentarily and screamed, "What have you done? It has been a year." She then knelt tending to Hutchens. There was that knife again plunging into Kincade's chest. The family did not want him. He was not needed here. This was not his wedding. He was a non-thing to these people.
Kincade did not even notice as a couple of the more burly guests grabbed him by the shoulders and marched him to the street. As he was, walked out, a random thought hit Kincade: These two must be family members of Hutchens.
One of the men spoke, "Go on, get away from here. This is not business for the likes of you, sailor boy." The man said in a gruff voice pushing Kincade by the shoulders forcing him to take a double step down the road towards the city.
Spinning to face the two, that knife, the one that had facilitated two deaths so far, was again in Kincade's hand. And Kincade jabbed and swung the thing at the man who pushed him. But that bastard had the high-ground position and easily avoided the attack. Both of them also pulled sizeable knives. Each makes a racking sound as the long blades extend and lock into place. The fine Spanish steel glinted in the light; both men took a uniform step forward without so much as looking to the other to see if they would take further action.
"Get out of it, or we will stitch you up nicely," one of the wedding guests of his fiancé said.
Kincade regained some sense of sanity and looked wordlessly at the pair before him. He stepped back, not noticing Hutchens and Amelia standing at the gate, the bride and groom, or the small dented bowler hat worn by a man at Hutchens's shoulder. And Kincade ran off down the hill.