The Weather at the Wedding
Table of Contents
1: The Invitation
It never snows in the farming districts west of the Blue Mountains. Not
in November. Not unless the laws of weather have been bribed.
Jonno Virek adjusted his brown flying jacket and peered through the
frosted window of the hired shuttle. A stubborn mist clung to the
paddocks, swirling in conspiratorial loops, as if someone had left the
fog machine on during a countryside rave and then gone off to get
married.
“Remind me,” he said, “why did we agree to this?”
Mara Sefton, seated beside him in an aggressively floral jumpsuit,
looked up from a foil packet of wedding biscuits. “Because you owe me
five favours and I cashed in four of them at once.”
“Four? That explains the outfit.”
“It’s camouflage. You’ll see why.”
The shuttle touched down with a thunk that suggested either faulty
retro-thrusters or passive-aggressive piloting. A sheep looked up,
unimpressed.
They stepped out into a whirling, oddly warm snow flurry. A string
quartet played under a marquee that was trying to escape into the upper
atmosphere. A celebrant shouted something over the wind about love,
union, and eternal chaos.
Jonno paused. “This district was never this weird.”
Mara shrugged. “That was before Cassie moved back.”
2: Not With That Tie
Cassiopeia Cheng, Mara’s university friend and professional emotional
manipulator, greeted them with air kisses and tightly scripted
sincerity.
“Jonno! So
thrilled you could come. Mara said you were still
flying that charming antique. Are you two—?” She gestured vaguely,
hoping context would do the rest.
“No,” Jonno said flatly.
“Oh, pity. Anyway, drinks are to the left, regrets to the right!”
The reception was held in a giant converted apple shed, full of rustic
beams and the scent of wet bark. A slide presentation featuring the
bride and her new husband played on loop, accompanied by a commentary
track Cassie had recorded herself. It was mostly about her gap year.
Jonno found a quiet corner and a tepid cup of peppermint kombucha.
“This is worse than that time we got trapped in a vacuum opera.”
Mara emerged from the throng, now sporting a corsage the size of a
wombat. “She’s deployed the full offensive. Half the guests are paired
off already — one bridesmaid tried to corner the celebrant.”
“Can we leave before she tries to make us dance?”
“She’s already booked us a wedding suite.”
Jonno sighed. “We
have a suite. What more does she want?”
“Apparently, confetti.”
3: The Fog of Matrimony
That’s when the weather truly turned.
A spiralling fog coalesced into the shape of a man—tall, floral tie,
clipboard. He glided across the paddock towards the shed, eyes glowing
faintly with bureaucratic menace.
“Who’s that?” Jonno asked.
“Looks like a Departmental Manifestation,” Mara muttered. “Oh no.
Emotionally Charged Weather Systems.”
The figure entered, mist trailing behind. He cleared his throat.
“Hello. I’m from the Bureau. Someone here has been broadcasting
unauthorised matrimonial pressures into the emotional atmosphere. We’re
seeing rampant condensation of suppressed desires and escalating
precipitation of awkwardness.”
Cassie raised a hand. “It’s a wedding, darling. That’s the
point.”
“Yes,” said the official, “but you’ve exceeded your licence quota.
We’ve already seen seven proposals, three attempted vow renewals, and
an alpaca with a garter.”
Mara stepped forward. “We’ll take responsibility if you let the others
go.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jonno said, still holding his kombucha.
The Bureau officer sniffed. “Your records suggest mutual avoidance,
punctuated by occasional biscuit exchanges. Very well. As long as no
further rituals occur—”
Cassie burst in, brandishing a bouquet. “Just catch it, Jonno!”
He dodged. The bouquet bounced off a support beam and landed in the
kombucha.
Everyone stared. The weather cleared.
“Well,” said Mara, “I suppose that counts as a win.”
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