| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Abby "Merc" Rustad / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
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| Perils of Laundry |
Never trust your fiancé to do the laundry.
I learned the hard way when Brent, sweetheart that he is, decided to wash all the clothes I'd packed the day before
our wedding. He was just trying to help, but frankly it was a disaster.
An earthquake, with a seven on the Richter scale, would have been less devastating.
I heard the clatter-clunk-click-bang issue from the dryer all the way on the second floor of the castle. Brent's father
gave him one of the spares on the edge of the loch, and we'd retrofitted it with a pseudo-Gothic style splashed with
chic. Huge medieval tapestries and a flat screen plasma TV in the living room; a torture chamber and new Turbo
4000 washer and dryer in the basement; a roaring fireplace, brick ovens, and a super-sized microwave in the
kitchen. Everything we'd need to start our new life together.
Well, except maybe clothes.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes and drifted down two flights of stairs with thirteen steps each, painted with peace signs
and hexes. We hadn't gotten the shag carpet delivered yet. The click-bang-crunch-shiver sounds got louder. I
winced and peered around the corner of the washing/torture room.
The movers had leaned the rack up against the wall and hadn't replaced the Iron Maiden in its spot, so it was a bit
crowded. I hopped over the stocks lying in the middle of the floor, kicked aside the empty clothesbaskets filled with
thumbscrews, and looked into the dryer.
I screamed.
Let me tell you, I have the lungs for it. We banshees were made for screaming in abject misery when we find male-
oriented household disasters spread out before us.
"No! My new designer cashmere sweater!"
I sank to my knees, too horrified to stand.
My soon-to-be-mother-in-law, Baroness Deidre Ashcroft Sevens McCorment the Fourth, flew into the room, her
gorgon locks still in curlers. "Bathsheba, darling, what is it?"
Shaking, I pointed at the remains of my wardrobe. "Brent."
The baroness gasped. "He didn't."
"He did!"
"That idiot."
"I know!"
"Hush, darling, you're going to drive Nessie into fits again."
I shut up.
The baroness hit the "off" button. The dryer clunked and shuddered to a stop. Bracing myself, I pried the door open.
Brent, bless his un-beating heart, had meant well. I tried valiantly to remember that when I looked at the remains of
my entire clothing ensemble: sweaters, halter-tops, skirts, tight designer faded jeans, pumps, bras, panties, even my
hair brush. And the make-up bag. Yes, my idiot vampire groom had thrown the make-up kit in the washer and the
dryer.
He'd used the wrong type of detergent and neglected to add fabric softener sheets to the load. Not only that, but
he'd stuffed the whole thing too full, put it on high, and set the timer for an hour.
The sweaters were shrunk into miniature; I no longer owned anything white.
"I'm going to kill him."
"He's already dead, darling."
"I don't care. He can die again!" I pulled at my hair. "Tell me this is all a nightmare."
My mother-in-law looked at me with that "you poor dear" expression and shook her head. Her curls hissed in
sympathy.
"What do I do?" I wore only a t-shirt and a pair of Brent's boxers. "I can't go to the reception like this!"
"There's nothing else for it, darling," Baroness McCorment said. "You're going to have to pick up your dress today
and wear it."
The baroness didn't wear clothes. I suspect it was one reason the baron McCorment fell in love with her; that and
he was a gargoyle in human form so her gaze had little effect on him. Except to turn him hard, if you know what I
mean.
I'd be damned if I was going to wear one of Brent's tuxes outside the castle.
It wasn't a problem of finding a new wardrobe. It was the sheer embarrassment factor. To get to one of the stores,
I'd have to leave the castle. People couldn't see me like this! I couldn't send anyone to shop for me, either. Only the
gardener, a wood dryad, and the butler Worthington—a charming demon from one of the lower hells—were in
residence. And the bloody mobile phones didn't get any reception out here.
"I can't wear my dress all day today," I said.
"At least wear it to the stores to go shopping," Baroness McCorment said.
I sniffed and picked at the sleeve of my once prize cashmere sweater. I wasn't that small. Alas.
"We can take the limo, darling," my mother-in-law said. "The tinted windows will hide you until you can get the
dress."
With one last despairing glance at the dryer, I nodded and we headed for the parking garage under the west wing.
***
Crouched below the windows in the back seat, I plotted vengeance against Brent. After the honeymoon, of course.
The baroness lounged in one seat and touched up her mascara with the aid of a compact magic mirror, which
complained the whole time about pay cuts and downsizing. A cheap pink square of plastic was really beneath him,
he said.
I'd grabbed one of the baron's trench coats, in preference over one of Brent's silk-lined capes. It was fashion
suicide nonetheless.
At least the bridal store workers knew me; they knew how to keep secrets, too. Mortifying as it was, at least I'd
survive a visit to Madame LeFont's. The same wasn't true about any other store in Scotland.
The streets rolled by and it had started raining. To add to the miserable conditions, Worthington blared '60s rock
from the limo's speakers. He justified it by saying it would neutralize my wailing if I broke down crying again.
Impudent incubus.
We reached Madame LeFont's Bridal Shoppe and Worthington pulled into the back delivery alley.
I rolled back the sunroof, an ironic addition Worthington had insisted the limo have, and peeked out. Cold rain
splashed into my face and I did a full visual sweep of the alley, checking for peepers.
"Darling," my mother-in-law said from inside, "just make a run for it."
I took a breath, nodded for Worthington, who opened the door, and bolted for the back entrance.
A trio of silver bells tinkled when I dashed inside. The air smelled of new fabric, perfume, and hot irons. Madame
LeFont, a portly woman who was half nymph and half ogre—don't ask, she doesn't discuss her heritage—turned
from behind the counter and beamed at me.
"Bathsheba, lass, here for the dress, are ye?" She gave me an appraising once over. Her greenish white skin
acquired a gray tinge and she slapped a hand over her heart. "Mary of the Were-sheep and Joseph of the Wood
Sidhe! Lass, what the devil are ye wearing?"
"Long story," I said. "I need my dress."
"I'll say ye do! Mercy, child, don't move."
I disobeyed just enough to hide even further in the shadows of a huge bolt of silk made from Chinese dragons. The
heat from the scale-silk dried any remaining water from my trench coat and skin.
Madame LaFont had a handful of customers, some teenaged water sprites bubbling over the newest import of veils
from Brigadoon. She barked that she was closed due to a fashion emergency and the sprites sulked and flowed out
the door to mix with the rain.
Locking the door, Madame LeFont fanned herself with a phoenix feather fan. It exploded into flame, turned to ash,
and then reformed every few seconds in her fingers. How she kept hold of it, I don't know.
"All right, lass, now don't ye panic. I have that wee dress in the back." She tossed the fan aside, where it settled with
a squawk into its coal box, then hurried through rows of mannequins that turned and posed for her. "Enough, ye
frightful spirits! I've seen ye enough."
The haunted mannequins pouted and sulked.
I backed away from the dragon silk bolt, toasty and dry, and struggled not to panic. I'd get my dress, we'd pop into
the nearest mall and do emergency binge shopping, and then I'd change into something more suitable. Brent was
readying for the bachelor party with his ghoul best men and no doubt already drunk.
The bridesmaids and I had a last fitting and were going to oversee the final details over at the old druid temple. If left
to their own devices, the griffin decorators tended to outfit everything in multiple shades of gore. I told them only a
few entrails and severed heads, for Brent's side of the family, but I suspected they had gone overboard.
Chewing on a nail, I didn't notice Madame LeFont until she touched my shoulder. I glanced up.
Bad News was stamped in her expression. She had something huge and bulky, shimmering and white behind her
back. It looked like a parachute. Or perhaps a bloated Pegasus carcass.
"Um, what's that?"
"I'm so sorry, lass..."
Panic tightened around my throat. I wanted to scream, but there were signs posted about no banshee wailing while
in city limits.
"That's not my dress," I said.
"Aye, lass, it is." Madame LeFont heaved the massive sack of white cloth and diamond sequins in front of her and
shook it out.
It was my dress: cut in the design I'd picked out, lined with cupid wing feathers, trimmed in replicas of Atlantis
pearls, and the white choker implanted with sound dampeners so if I broke down and started wailing during the
ceremony, I wouldn't scare off the priest.
The dress, my dress, was seven sizes too large. It'd been sized for a bloody mountain troll.
"Oh." It was all I could say.
"I don't know what happened, lass." Madame LeFont looked more pallid than before. "I finished it yesterday, right
as rain." She frowned hard, thinking. "Ach! That new girl I hired last week, that fallen angel lass, she must have
stored the dress too close to the multiplier."
"The what?"
"A little device from another time zone, lass. I use it to stretch me materials a little longer."
"Can you fix it?"
Madame LeFont gave me her most sympathetic, apologetic, and insincere smile yet. It set a record. "I've got a full
line of dresses to sew for the Olympian gods' banquet, lass. I'm sorry, I just don't have time to fix the dress proper."
I threw back my head and wailed in despair. Ruined!
Madame LeFont clapped a hand over my mouth. "Bathsheba, lass, enough! Ye had better get back home. I can't
help ye right now."
Scowling, I bunched up my dress, vowed silently this was the last time I patronized Madame LeFont's, and stormed
back to the limo.
I shoved the behemoth load of fabric into the seat, got in, and snapped at Worthington to drive like, well, a
succubus heading to a date. I didn't want to insult any hell bats that might have been listening.
"Darling, what $ that?" the baroness asked.
"My dress."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Darling!"
I sobbed. Then I flipped open my mobile and dialed Brent.
He answered on the third ring. "Hey, babe."
"Honey, we have to cancel the wedding."
He choked on whatever he was drinking. "What? Why?"
"I don't have a dress, and I don't have any clothes."
"I like you better naked anyway."
I sighed. "That's not the point. You ruined my entire wardrobe and some idiot fallen angel ruined my wedding dress!
I have nothing to wear!"
Brent paused. "Well, we could make it a nude event."
I hung up on him in exasperation. Men.
I was not walking into another shop like this. The gossip that would spawn would outlive my grandchildren.
I was soaked again from the run to the car; the rain came down harder. I wished there was some more dragon silk
to dry me off.
And then it hit me how I could save my wedding—and my dress.
***
I sat on the edge of the rack and watched the dryer hum, set to the highest notch. A huge ball of white pressed
against the dryer window.
After I chewed all my fingernails and started on the toes, the buzzer went off and the cycle stopped.
Holding my breath, I pulled the door open and took out the dress. It was hot and smelled of fresh summer fabric
softener. I shook it out and held it up to myself.
"Wonderful, darling," the baroness said, smiling. All her curls hissed in agreement.
I beamed at them.
The dress was now just the right size, having shrunk in the dryer, and while a little wrinkled and some of the feathers
flaked off, it was good enough.
I was never letting Brent near my clothes again, but the wedding was still on, and it would not be relegated to a
nudist event.
Men should never do laundry, but sometimes their idiocy can spark the most brilliant ideas.
I shimmied out of the t-shirt and boxers and my mother-in-law helped me lace up the back of the dress.
It fit perfectly.
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