[missile]

The Lieutenant escorted Dara to the wedding of an officer he was related to. The man was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Black Watch, so the pomp and costuming of the ceremony resembled that of an Italian opera.

Dara?s eyes swept across the altar as they waited for the bride to be piped in, taking in the outrageous uniforms, what with the beaver hats extending far above and the kilts extending no where near far enough below. She took her escort?s hand.

?Tell me, Peters, how long will it take you to make Colonel??

?That depends on how many wars there are in the next few years,? he said softly. ?Why? Are you jealous??

?No, no, it?s not that. I firmly believe there?s a spouse for all of us, and begrudge her not for finding hers. I was just curious when one such as you might afford a ceremony such as this.?

?Ah, you want bagpipes at your wedding??

She shook her head, but did notice he was not so presumptuous as to refer to ?their? wedding. ?Not these, anyway. I?m Irish. The bagpipes are Gaelic, but the wrong Gaelic. Have you heard Irish bagpipes, Lieutenant?? He shook his head in negation. She shrugged. ?They?re fun in taverns, I suppose, but I never thought of them as appropriate for a wedding, personally.?

The bride passed their pew just then. Dara squeezed Peters? hand and leaned over to whisper: ?But I will admit, I envy her that dress ? Oh!?

?Are you alright?? he asked, as people around them glanced towards them at her outburst. Her hands flew around her dress.

?I?.I believe so. I thought I felt a strap or pin give way, but my underclothes seem to be in order.?

She shrugged, and they sat silently through the wedding.

At the reception, they danced for one song. She was disconcerted to find that her head only reached the ribbons on his chest. Dancing was awkward with the height difference between them.

Dara was certain he wasn?t that tall in the horse stalls.

?I wonder,? he mused.

?What??

?Well, I purchased new boots for this occasion. Perhaps the heel is higher than I normally wear.?

?That must be it. Can we sit down?? He gallantly led her to a table and left her seated while he sought refreshments. She shifted and squirmed, trying to get comfortable.

They passed the time at the table quite pleasantly. Dara marked the officer?s willingness to listen to her opinions and even seemed to consider her ideas.

He took care to introduce her to both male and female aquaintences as they strode past or sat nearby.

He did take exception to the amount of alcohol she consumed, though.

?Phaugh!? she dismissed his concerns. ?An Irishman, or woman, is never drunk as long as they can grasp a blade of grass and not slide off the face of the earth.?

?But there is no grass in the pavillion, Miss O?Shay,? he pointed out. She tossed her head towards the band.

?Well, I also, historically, get deaf when I?m drunk. When the bagpipes no longer sound, to me, like a pregnant cat being forcibly ejected from a piano by means of a baboon-operated bellows, I will know that I am drunk. Not before. Now be a good chap and refill this.? He smiled, nodded, and obediently marched towards the refreshments.

?Miss O?Shay! What a pleasant surprise!?

Williams was walking up to the table from the direction of the band. He made a grotesque pantomime of searching the immediate area for witnesses, then leaned close to her.

?And may I say, where no one can hear, how voluptuous you look today.? She smiled at the compliment, with a glance downwards at her own endowments.

?Christ?s bloody arms and legs!? she swore. Her breasts were pushing against the fabric of her blouse, as a market vendor offering overripe fruit. Even as she watched, the corset seemed to heave upwards, forcing the rounded masses even higher.

?I couldn?t disagree,? Williams replied. Over his shoulder, Peters coughed politely. ?So, Lieutenant, this is how you escort a charge? Plying her with drink between leaving her alone at a table??

?I believe you?re the only threat to show himself so far, sir.? He lowered the drinks to the next table over and offered his elbow to Dara.

?I believe it?s time to leave, dear.?

?Uh, yes, thanks,? she said, latching onto his arm as a lifeline.

Williams watched with a superior smile as they made their retreat, thinking himself the cause, she was sure.

Peters made no comment on the state of her dress, just sat beside her on the ride, a comforting presence. She barely thanked him at the door and fled to her rooms.

Behind the closed door of her room, Dara began to shuck her garments. Though she'd needed help donning them, she was able to undo most everything herself.

Finally she stood before her mirror, clad in stockings, garter belt and corset. She found herself shocked at the image. Though never exactly a waif, she was now the very image of pulchritude. Her bodily curves were exaggerated as if in the dreams of a Mediterranean slave merchant.

She could not determine what had happened, or why she looked that way now, instead of how she'd looked at the lingerie shop. She resolved to ask her aunt on the morrow and moved to finish undressing.

Her mortification at the sight she presented prevented her summoning the maid. Luckily, the shoe button hook was sufficient to reach the knot on the laces that she might remove the confining piece.

Just as it slipped off her hips, though, the room began to swim around her. She recognized that she was drunk, but in a rush, rather than the usual rising tide she'd experienced before. She staggered to the bed and barely climbed into it.

She woke briefly, some time later, to see the maid tiptoeing around the room, lifting up her clothes to put them away. The woman tucked her in with a smile, then deftly jumped back to avoid the spray of vomit.

The next morning, the bells of Saint Marks woke Dara and her hangover up together. She groaned at the thought of attending church in her condition. Well, she'd learned in Philly that if one skipped a service, there was some talk, but if you showed up with the bloodshot eyes, the breath, the sensitivity to light, there was far more talk, and it was far more accurate. She'd skip it, today.

Then she recalled that her letters home always included the subject of the minister's sermons, that her mother might be comforted at Dara's spiritual guidance. Well, she could always make up a standard sermon about the seven deadly sins, that'd satisfy her mother.

A loud thump from beyond the foot of the bed sounded. She sat carefully up to see that her wardrobe was open, with a few clothes strewn out as if pushed from within.

Nothing further moved, though, and she sank back down into the bed.

She was moving slowly around the room in her dressing gown, later, when Sally strode in.

"Well, what are you waiting for, girl!? We have to be at the reception in half an hour!"

"Aunt Sally, I can't! None of my clothes fit!" she wailed.

"WHAT?!" Sally swiftly crossed the room and yanked the gown up. Naked before the woman's gaze, Dara tried to discern the cause of her aunt's upset. "Well, you don't LOOK pregnant," she finally said, dropping the hem. "What, exactly, do you mean by 'they don't fit????