Aroscon Poio, Mama, and Paolo.

The practice dinner takes me an hour and a half longer than I hoped it would. Before they start, I poke the tangle of magic in my skull and it emits a pleased, self-satisfied hum. That's got to be a good sign. They start with the Aroscon Poio. The chicken is too dry and I didn't add enough green olives, but of course they say only nice things. None of them appears to feel poisoned, which is an excellent sign. It'll be better for the actual wedding. Mama wraps an arm around me. But nobody needs a perfect wedding anyway.