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constructing it, and I can’t see how they’d just fall out, either. It’s almost like . . .”
    He trailed off, but I finished the sentence. “Like someone
pulled
them out.”
    Ben lowered his voice. “Who’d want to sabotage a freaking altar?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe the same person who’d kill a room full of flowers.”
    Ben sat back, eyeing me. “You think someone’s trying to ruin this wedding.” He didn’t pose it as a question. Then his face clouded. “You know, only
two
pins were out of position. Both were in the center, right beneath where the priest was standing. That’s why the thing didn’t crater before, when the wedding party climbed up. But if Kit and Whitney had taken one more step . . .”
    “Boom,” I finished. “Game over for Whitney’s Irish fantasy service.”
    He nodded. “We got lucky.”
    I clicked my tongue. “Unless those pins were targeted. By someone who knew
exactly
which ones to remove.”
    Ben gave me a skeptical look. “So that the platform would only collapse when the happy couple stepped onto it? Seems pretty far-fetched. That’d take an impressive feel for physics, Tor. Weight. Tensile strength. Load-carrying capacity. All that stuff.”
    Good point. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the flower and altar glitches were connected somehow.
    Before I could respond, a bell chimed. Everyone took their seats.
    “Talk more later,” I whispered as Ben pulled out my chair. “I might be crazy.”
    He raised an eyebrow.
We could mov
e to this channel. A
nd you’re never craz
y.
    “It’s okay, really.” Then I sent,
Too
many people around
for telepathy. It’d
look pretty strange
if we just stared at
each other the whol
e meal.
    Now Ben’s eyebrows bounced up and down.
Staring at y
ou is fine by me.
    I snorted, startling the DuBois relations sitting close by. Plastering on a smile, I nodded to our dinner companions, then pretended to hunt for my napkin.
You se
e?
    After drink orders were taken, Ben and I built an invisible wall around ourselves. Harry and Tempe were all the way across the table—impossible to speak with anyway—and I’d spent an entire week schmoozing various DuBois clan members. Not tonight, thanks. Our tablemates took the hint, and we were quietly left alone.
    The first course was lobster bisque. As the noise level increased, it began to feel like a private date between the two of us. “Do you speak again?” Ben asked, spooning up the last of his appetizer.
    “No, thank God.” I blew a stray hair from my mouth. “My toasting duties were completed at the rehearsal dinner. Only the best man speaks tonight.”
    Another DuBois wedding quirk, but fine by me. One heartfelt speech extolling Whitney’s virtues was all I could manage. Her tearful hug last night had left makeup stains on the shoulder of my dress.
    Salads arrived, followed by filet mignon. Ben and I grimaced as Best Man Eric stumbled through a drunken, rambling toast no one could follow. The guy barely even knew Kit. Shrimp came last, disappearing in seconds. Then coffee. The band started up, and my foot began tapping on its own. Caffeine will do that.
    Ben and I were holding hands under the table, a habit we’d recently developed that I had no intention of breaking. I was about to ask him more about Warren Wilson’s science program—we didn’t discuss his leaving much, but we’d have to face reality soon enough—when a shadow fell across the table.
    I glanced up. Ben’s grip tightened, then his hand fell away.
    “Sorry to interrupt.” Chance didn’t look sorry in the slightest.
    “Then don’t.” Ben deadpanned, but with a hostile undercurrent.
    Chance dismissed Ben completely, in that way only he could manage. “May I have this dance?” He extended a hand gracefully, as if he spent most evenings patrolling swanky tuxedo parties picking up girls. Who knows? Maybe he did.
    Ben went rigid. I was about to decline when Ella clapped Ben onthe shoulders. “Come on,