May 7th, 1891 — Late — A Chapel in Montrose

Alfred had been soaring since they left Ottery St. Catchpole. Even the little delays here and there, hitches in the plan that caused them to have to make adjustments and adapt to fit new circumstances as they arose, couldn't dampen his spirits. Even when he tried to tell himself that nothing was going to change, practically, it couldn't bring him down. They may not be sleeping in the same bed tonight, and no one would know except the two of them, and he still had to earn her father's approval and go through an engagement and plan a wedding... but they were going to be married tonight. Ultimately, that was what it all came down to. Not the impatience of the minister, who had been pulled away from his evening cup of tea and bribed with a bottle of scotch Alfred had to purchase from one of the little stores on the waterfront. Not the uncertainty about what would happen next. Just: they were going to be married.

They'd gotten everything in order, he thought, which meant there was nothing else to delay them. His stomach fluttered with nerves, though that was silly — it wasn't like he was nervous. He'd known he wanted this for a long time. He chewed his lower lip as he looked at her — this probably wasn't the dress she would have chosen to wear if she'd known when she left the house tonight what they'd be doing, but there was something sort of nice about this, too. Marrying the Zelda he saw every day, instead of one who was done up with fancy hair and elbow-high white gloves.

"When we do this next time, you can wear the gloves I got you," he suggested, reaching out to take both of her hands in his.

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