"Mr. Bailey, the florist has brought pink roses instead of white lilies, what would you like us to tell the bride?"

Considering that she was hammering another nail into his coffin, Eliott thought the hotel maid was far too cheerful. Cake-toting waiters argued in hushed tones with porters carrying enormous globular vases filled with the wrong flowers, as they all vied for space in the dining hall. The melee made Eliott set a hand on the wall until the dizziness passed.

Tell her I suck at my job, and that because of me her dream wedding is going to hell in a pink rose decorated handbasket.

Elliot figured he might have been better equipped to deal with it if he wasn't already operating on twenty minutes sleep. Spending the night in the hotel kitchen, making canapés because the check to the caterers had mysteriously gone awry, wasn't conducive to being well rested.

Even so, by the time he managed to pass out, some time around five, he'd psyched himself up sufficiently that he'd believed whatever challenges lay ahead were entirely surmountable.

Not breaking his stride, he ran a hand through his hair.

"Where is the bride now?"

A tiny waitress carrying a floral display at least as tall as she was smacked him in the face with a waxy leaf as she passed, barely pausing to apologize. Eliott licked his lips, tasting florist store and despair.

"She's still in her suite, Mr. Bailey. The hair stylist was late,” said an entirely different yet damnably perky server. Before Eliott could turn around, she'd already melted off into the current of bodies jostling through the halls.

Great. Eliott took a deep breath, the scent of flowers catching in his throat. The bride's mother would be sneezing all through the damn ceremony.

"Mr. Bailey." One of the porters stopped him at the bottom of the stairs, and just as the wide staircase promised to lift him out of the mire, he was dragged back down again. "We have a problem."

Famous last words, along with `it's not you, it's me`, and only slightly better than `d'you want fries with that`, which was what waited for him if he screwed up again.

"What's the problem?"

A crash reverberated from the dining hall. Deathly silence was followed by a fervent "Oh my God I'm so sorry!"

Eliott looked at the porter. He didn't look psychic... "Not that, right?"

"Ah, no." The porter wouldn't meet his eyes. "Someone left the swan ice sculpture too close to the heating vent, and--”

Eliott held up a hand. "Does it still look like a swan?"

"Well, it's a little melted--”

"Then get the kitchen staff to put it in the freezer for an hour." He turned for the stairs, taking two at a time. "Who put it out this early anyway?"

"The kitchen staff says they don't have space for it, Mr. Bailey."

"They can make space," Eliott said, not waiting around for an argument. His clients wanted an ice swan, and damn it they were going to get one. Or at least something that mostly resembled a swan, and would last till everyone was too drunk on champagne to realize it was puddling over the cakes.

It wasn't the first time everything had skirted disaster; even if he seemed to be skimming closer and closer each time, things had a knack of working out. This however, was one of the few times where he felt disaster wasn't just imminent; it had front pew seats and was bringing extra guests who were sure to complain about the lack of specialized meals at the reception.

He'd gotten into this business because he liked seeing people happy, if only for one day. One day for which he was responsible. And since he was pretty unlikely to ever get the opportunity to arrange his own wedding, he could live vicariously.

Lately though, happiness was becoming increasingly elusive. His present charges didn't seem happy at the culmination of all their stress, headaches and expense, they just seemed numbly relieved, and Elliot in turn just felt glad nothing more had gone wrong.

He wanted to see them happy, and in love, but lately he felt as though he was just barely steering them through a series of pitfalls as spectacular as the Grand Canyon.

One of these days, he wasn't going to be able to fix things in time, and when that happened, it wouldn't just be the caterers who weren't getting paid. As it stood, he had a stand-in crew taking over the kitchen on ridiculously short notice, preparing food for three hundred guests, all paid for out of his own pocket. Not the best solution, but in the circumstances the only one available to him.

He glanced out of the window at the top of the stairs. The venue was just as beautiful now as it had been the cold afternoon six months ago when he'd brought the prospective couple here. They'd fallen in love with the old plantation house, its lush landscaped grounds, rich in color and scent even as the rest of the countryside fell prey to the last stirrings of winter. He'd said it would be perfect for a late summer wedding, and it was. It was the only thing left that hadn't fallen apart.

The cacophony downstairs only muted slightly as he made it to the second floor. At least the bride and groom's families occupied most of the rooms on this floor and there were no other hotel guests to annoy.

His cell phone rang just outside the bride's suite, and Eliott cursed it as he fished the thing from a rumpled cream suit pocket. The LCD said `Kristin`. Feeling a little calmer, Eliott flipped the phone open, greeted immediately by his assistant's barked demands.

"Where are you?"

"On my way to tell the bride I've ruined her wedding."

Kristin ignored his melodramatic assertion. "I need you down here. The guests are starting to arrive."

"Already?" Eliott refused to whimper. He'd have screamed, but the bride was too close. "We're at least an hour late, probably closer to two. We can't seat them yet."

"So what do we do with them?” Kristin asked. “We can't just leave them standing in the parking lot."

"Well, it's not as if it's raining or something, so--”

"Not funny."

Elliot rubbed his temple, a futile attempt to ward off a headache that was thumping around in his head like an ocean liner coming into dock. "I know. Is there anyone still at the hotel who could do anything? Historical costumes, re-enactments, displays, tours?"

"A little late to call in the re-enactment," Kristin paused thoughtfully. "They have falconry displays I think. And the handler is still here, I yelled at him twenty minutes ago because his truck was taking up guest parking places." Eliott could picture her making a face. "Plus it looked like shit, ruined the first impression people had of the place."

"Falconry," Elliot brightened. "People would like that, that'd work. Can you arrange that? Keep them milling on the grounds, keep them occupied for," he glanced at his watch, "an hour, max?"

"If I grovel," Kristin said. "And like you said, the weather's fine, at least it's not--”

"Don't!" Elliot shook his head. "Fate hates us plenty already. Just go get the display started, lie to them, encourage them to take scenic walks in the grounds. Long scenic walks. Keep them stalled for an hour and I'll love you forever."

"Ah, you said that after I spent three hours herding up those damn rogue swans at the McKinley wedding." Kristin snorted. "And you still owe me."

Eliott smiled as she hung up. Kristin always knew what to do, always knew how to keep him and the circumstances from spiralling into a drama worthy of the theater. If he was straight, he'd have made good on the promise to love forever a long time ago. If he was straight, he'd have married her the first time she bailed him out by coercing a friend to bake two top layers of a wedding cake to replace the ones he'd left on the roof of his car while he drove through a hailstorm to the venue.

Calmer, he knocked on the bridal suite door, politely waiting for an invitation before letting himself in.

Someone shrieked.

For a moment he thought he'd misheard and walked in on the bride changing. But she wasn't among the sentry-line of women lining the path to the bathroom like a parade, and the wailing continued.

"What's wrong?" The bride's mother pounded on the bathroom door. "Sarah, darling, what's wrong?"

Eliott headed for the hair stylist, figuring he'd get at least some semblance of a rational explanation there.

"What's going on?"

"Beats me." The stylist shrugged. "She's been locked in there since I got here."

"Sarah!" Her mother yelled in a tone that even made Eliott feel like coming to heel. "Get out here this instant!"

Even before the bathroom door flung open, the smell of plastic burning wafted into the room. Standing in the doorway, eyes red and streaked black with mascara, Sarah held aloft one long straggly hair extension, melted flat and charred at one end. In the other hand she brandished a curling iron.

"I thought we didn't have time!" She sniffed. "But look...!" She waved the hair again.

The gaggle of women began clamouring with their reassurances and advice. Eliott cut through them, holding a hand up in a request for attention.

"Okay, anyone that doesn't need to be here, I'd really like it if you made your way to the courtyard." He smiled. "We're having a falconry display, and then we'll begin seating."

"But--!" A woman who looked like a bigger, meaner version of Sarah--minus melted hair--looked as though she was happy to square up to him.

"Everything here is under control." Eliott nodded, staring down anyone who wanted to argue. It didn't matter anymore that he didn't quite believe it, he had to make the bride believe it. He was responsible for her day and she was unhappy. Nothing else mattered besides changing that.

Reluctantly, about two thirds of the throng complied with his demand, and left the room. Breathing a little easier, Eliott turned to Sarah, gently coaxing the hair and the weapon-cum-iron out of her trembling hands. "It's all going to be fine. Okay?"

He sought out her gaze, and after a moment Sarah sniffled, looking up at him. The nod was wobbly and half-hearted but it was there.

"Everything's going to be perfect." Shaking out his handkerchief, he dabbed at the mascara tears, brushing back a tangled lock of hair that, thankfully, didn't feel damaged. "The stylist is here, the flowers have arrived, and we've got plenty of time to go. We're going to make you the most gorgeous bride the world's ever seen, all right? Don't worry about a single thing."

That's my job.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Eliott tilted his head, smiled, hoping to every known deity that he wasn't lying. "Really."

* * * *

The ceremony kicked off an hour and twenty-seven minutes late, and considering the depth of the hole they'd been in, Elliot considered it a roaring success. Sarah looked beautiful even with pink roses instead of white lilies, and all the guests commented on the wonderful canapés and the novel idea of the falconry display as pre-wedding entertainment.

"How are we doing?" Kristin sidled up to him as the wedding party exited the ballroom into the flowered courtyard to prepare for the photography session, and to release two white doves. Elliot didn't really see the appeal of the doves. They were a cliché at every wedding now, and he'd tried to talk the couple out of it. It didn't help that the damn things had shit so much on the drive over that the back seat of his car looked like someone had been grouting a bathroom. Still, his charges wanted their doves, and doves they got.

"Good." He smiled, allowing himself a moment of indulgence and pride in salvaging a near wreck of a day. "I think we're actually out of the woods. Everyone seems really--”

Happy. He was going to say happy, but a scream from outside interrupted his words and his train of thought.

Kristin gave him a disparaging 'you just had to go tempt fate, you jackass!' look, as they hurried out into the sun trap courtyard, following the sounds of commotion.

At first glance, seeing the blood spattered over Sarah's four thousand dollar hand-beaded ivory silk dress, Elliot thought there'd been a fight. Jealous exes turning up were a professional hazard, but it rarely turned violent.

Then he saw the feathers. They trailed a white fluffy path in a rough pattern between the unhappy couple and the falconer's hawk. The hawk who was currently sitting at the edge of the courtyard, pecking away at whatever was left of one of the doves.

The profound silence that followed was only penetrated by the shivered rustling of silk and taffeta, and the groom's whispered attempts at keeping his precious new bride from shaking hard enough to dislodge her veil.

It wasn't that bad. He'd never thought the hawk could escape, never thought it'd view the doves as an all-you-can-eat buffet. They'd see the bright side--because there was one, damn it, there had to be--and when they did, they wouldn't want to tear seven kinds of strips off him for ruining their perfect day. Surely in years to come, they'd remember this for its uniqueness and its place in the dinner party repertoire as an amusing anecdote, rather than as the disaster it had become.

One day they'd look back on this, and it would all seem funny.

Sarah shook off her groom's hopeless reassurances, and began to scream again, screeching loud enough that even the hawk took a step back with its prize, and Elliot watched his career and his business fly away on bloodied dove wings.