Finally this thing is moving someplace. 4th update in just as many days :)

January 27, 7 am, still in my room

Last night was terrible. I was up till 4 in the morning, with my head leaning against the toilet, trying to figure out what to do with the burn on my chest. I swear, not even bathing in cold water got rid of the heat! Then I figured I could just open the window and grab some snow, but of course these windows don't open just because it is an EMERGENCY.

My skin is all red where the tea had its fun. At least I don't have blisters, so I guess it could be worse.

But hot flashes or not, I have my WEDDING to plan. Luckily things can only get uphill from now on.

January 27, 7:30 am, back in my former hotel

Well, I went to see how my wedding dress is progressing. I had to knock for five minutes to get a very sleepy Harry answer the door.

He seemed to be the only one in the room. On Sebastiano's bed was what I presumed were the beginnings of my wedding dress. It didn't have any real shape. It was just white fabric. Since Michael and I are supposedly getting married in two days, I felt a sudden blow to my stomach that stopped me from breathing or a few moments.

And no, the burns had nothing to do with it.

"He's in the bathroom," Harry simply said, then headed back to the bed. I think he was snoring by the time I knocked on the bathroom's door.

There was no answer.

"Sebastiano, come on," I said, "let's talk about the dress. It looks … great."

"It doesn look like anyt," I heard him say.

"I'd say it is a promising start," I insisted.

Why does my genius designer cousin have to have this meltdown just 48 hours before I am supposed to marry? Not that he is ever emotionally stable, but which genius is? Well, Michael, but artistic genius is not the same as a computer one. I am sure technological specialists do not SEE colors or HEAR patterns lead them to a creation.

"It is cra," he censored himself. "I hav lost my light! My eye! I don't see it anymo! It is all a conf! A blur!"

"Is this because of last night?" I carefully asked.

There was no response.

"There is nothing wrong with the way you feel, Sebastiano. It is completely … natural."

This time there was a response. I heard the water running.

I tried the knocking again. The water only seemed to run faster.

I then tried to ask Harry where were Lars and René, but by the way he murmured, "Get away, hamsters," (Geoffrey saw hamsters the last time he was visiting George, and now he wants a pet hamster, too. Harry says there is no way his Geoffrey will have a pet that does nothing but run in the wheel. I think he thinks that buying a St. Bernard will make him a better parent.) I figured he wouldn't be of much help.

So I went downstairs to the bar, thinking it would be a good idea to get some breakfast. But of course Michael beat me to it.

He looked like he got his eight or so hours of sleep. He was RADIANT, I swear, in his grey sweater and jeans. He was talking with some of the guys coach Tom coached, and the way he threw his head back and laughed didn't at all indicate that there was anything wrong with him, for example that he didn't at all spent half the night regretting letting his fiancée move out of our room. And he definitely didn't look like he was burnt anywhere on his body.

Of course I realize that he had nothing to feel bad about. I mean, he is universally loved and has a girl he wants to marry; he wasn't the one who chose to move to a crappier room, didn't spill tea over anyone, and he definitely wasn't the one who said no to coming over. But still, it is hard to be happy for others when you have a burned chest and your hair no longer smells like vanilla.

I crashed into something as I turned around to eat in my new hotel. The something turned out to be a somebody – Edward. As soon as I learnt that his training session for today was cancelled due to the new snow, I realized I still don't know WHERE I want to get married. And since pretty much everyone else is too busy with their own lives to help me with my wedding, I asked Edward to go scouting for a proper place with me.

He agreed. He even didn't growl too much when I said we should skip breakfast. René wouldn't; he thinks proper breakfast is a key to a proper day (something like Ryan Lochte's 'if you're a man at night, you gotta be a man in the morning', I guess.). Like, if he flirts with a cute girl at breakfast, either a guest or the waitress, the day is bound to be a good one (if the girl is not a 3D creature, then the ones on Tinder or that Who's Hot website work as well).

So we'll be leaving now. If, of course, I find a pair of shoes that doesn't have its weight tripled with water. I am conserving my energy for the healing purposes.

January 27, 9 am, up in the mountains

This place is so gorgeous! There is snow everywhere, and now that the sun is shining, it is really pretty. Not like last night, when it seemed like snow couldn't decide whether to freeze me to death or drown me. Everything here is so bright I think I could use my sunglasses. Shame I left them back in Genovia.

Edward has offered to lend me his, but I don't want to make him feel like he owns me anything for that money I gave him. Anyway, he is so awesome. He is telling me about his family – he lives with his mother in Vermont and his mother is a librarian. Apparently they have a room in their house that is full of books. Like from ceiling to the floor, all walls are full of books.

I can't believe I haven't thought of that. I only have TWO SHELVES. And I call myself a book lover?

"Well, I, um…" Edward then proceeded with a mischievous look on his face, "I read yours. Book, I mean. Ransom My Heart."

Over the years hundreds of people I met said the same thing to me, including a group of wives of the presidents of Baltic countries. One of them brought a copy along, and we spent the tea party reading out the sex scenes. After dinner I was crying half of the night (and Michael wasn't there. He was in New York. And Lulu doesn't tolerate crying well). I mean, I had poured my heart into that book. Sure, I had always known it wasn't exactly a masterpiece, a Jane Austen with sex or something. I may be biased, but I don't think it is any worse than, I don't know, Julie Garwood or someone. Just your leisure historical romance read. But of course because it was written by the Princess of Genovia, everyone HAS to read the sex scenes and then mock them. I mean, nobody takes the novel seriously.

"That's why I quit writing," I told Edward.

"Then change the genre," he shrugged.

"I don't think it would do any difference," I laughed. "I am fine with it. Really. I am just writing for fun now. I think I only published that book to prove to myself that I could."

"You think that's enough?" he said.

"I have plenty of other things in my life."

"Well, Princess, I think you are a coward," he then simply said.

"What?" I gasped. "I am not!"

"You just said you love writing. That you felt proud, and still do, seeing the book you wrote on your book shelf, in the bookstores across the world. You could feel the same so many times till now, if you weren't so wrapped up in other people's opinion. So what if they mock you? If they say you only got published because you are a princess? Most of them have never ever written a book. For some your book was probably the first they read since high school – how could they then know whether it was any good or not? People always judge, you should know that better than anyone by now. I think it is just stupid to suppress what you are out of fear."

Isn't it obvious that he grew up in the library? I mean, every time he says more than once sentence at the time, it sounds like something Lucy Maud Montgomery might write.

Before I could muster any worthy of an answer, the ski lift reached the top. We followed the path to the left. It led to a small clearing among the spruces. And I could just SEE it. The wedding, me in white, Michael in white, the stark contrast of his dark hair, the guests sitting on white chairs, and with snow and snow-capped mountain top all around us. The croquembouche in the creamy color, EVERYTHING. And it was just PERFECT.

I took Edward's hand to prevent myself from falling over. I was just so OVERWHELMED!

"This is it," I said.

I took my phone out of the jacket and took some photos. I tried sending them to Michael, but there was no cell reception. CAN YOU IMAGINE? I am getting married in a place where live broadcast isn't possible and my tripping on my way to Michael won't be seen by billions of people.

Now we are on the lift again, going down to the valley. So, now I have the croquembouche and the location. That's good, it's progress. And I have delegated the remaining tasks. I am getting so good at this I might open my own wedding consultancy.

WHO AM I KIDDING? I would be even a bigger laughing stock than I am as a writer! I have NOTHING done! I still need –

1. Get Sebastiano's inner eye back, so that he can make me a wedding dress. Otherwise I will have to get married in bra, because that is the only white thing I have with me.

2. Locate René and make sure he doesn't get drunk the night before the wedding

3. Same for Lars. Has he gotten the documents yet? Probably not; nothing about that bakery looked secure enough to obtain them.

4. Has Harry woken up yet? He's in charge of the music!

5. Find proper chairs and have them moved on top of the mountain.

6. Get Michael to look at all our phones to find the one that will take the best wedding pictures.

7. Find a way to get rid of the burn before the wed…

WHAT IS THAT? THAT, ON THE HILL? RIGHT UNDER OUR LIFT?

"Relax, Mia," Edward laughed. "It is just a bear."

JUST A BEAR?

Just a bear it would be if it was a TEDDY BEAR. This thing is brown, huge, and probably HUNGRY.

Why is Edward LAUGHING?

"There's plenty of them here in Switzerland."

"And you only mention this now?" I shrieked. I mean, I want to get married here! And now I learn it is a bear's den?

"Funny," Edward frowned, "don't you think it should be hibernating?"

I should have known. What was I THINKING, getting married without anyone knowing? How could I possibly think I could pull this off? Grandmere might have moved all the way to Sweden to raise champions of lamb beauty pageants, but she must have send me on her radar, like Britney did that polo player in those super tight and fitting white pants!

This is the NICEST warning I will get. A bear threatening to eat my wedding guests.

"No, wait, there's…" Edward said and pointed to the left.

January 27, 2 pm, the hospital

This wedding is a nightmare.

A NIGHTMARE FROM HELL.

This is bigger than Grandmere. It is not her radar and secret squad of hitmen. This is Fate. Who knows what it is planning for my real wedding day. Maybe it is planning the end of the world. And then the selected survivors will have to repopulate it. Really, so many people will attend my wedding, with or without an invitation, that the world population will drop significantly if Lars or one of his subordinates misses a bomb or some other death-inducing device (maybe some type of gas?) and everyone in the so-and-so mile radius die.

Or maybe it will even go bigger. Maybe Fate will encode the broadcast of my wedding with some lethal pixels, and everyone watching it will be killed. Maybe Samaras will slink out of the screen. Maybe Fate hates technology and wants the world to go back to its rural roots. OH MY GOD, MAYBE THE WORLD WILL BE LIKE IN THAT KIWI SERIES I BINGE WATCHED LAST YEAR WHERE EVERYONE WORE SO MUCH MAKE UP AND LIVED IN THE MALL. AND HAD BABIES AT 14. AND JOINED CULTS. AND KILLED WITH LASERS (I think. I read it on Wiki. By the end of the third season so many of my favorite characters have been killed, killed and brought back, or DELETED that I stopped watching. I still thank my temporary sanity that I didn't tell Sebastiano of the fashion style of the thing. The world is not yet ready for a line inspired by post-apocalyptic rummaging through high couture (think Britney in I Wanna Go. Just with crazier make up. But without cars because there wasn't any gasoline left. Or electricity. Or running water. I still don't know where they went to the toilet)).

I CAN'T BELIEVE I WILL MISS THIS! Not the lack of toilets, but living in a MALL.

I mean, it makes PERFECT sense, sabotaging this wedding. If the world finds out we have been married before the Genovian spectacle, who will even still want to watch it? Fate's plan will be in ruins! The number of casualty will be insignificant!

I asked Edward if that bear was my Grim. You know, after I turned so quick in the direction he showed that I lost the balance and fell off the lift. And kept falling for what felt like forever, till I landed on a huge pile of snow.

Thank god for that snowstorm last night. Otherwise I would probably be dead right now. Dead, with my diary in my hand and the unbroken Gucci heels (so many times they have let me down, but this time, when they have a perfect opportunity to misbehave? Now they are diligent!).

See what I mean about that bear being a Grim?

"Did you bump your head?" Edward sounded worried.

"I am totally fine," I said after falling five meters from the lift. I tried to pick myself up when I realized I wasn't fine AT ALL. I just feel back on the snow and by that point Edward looked totally panicky.

The next thing I knew, two doctors appeared by my side (as it turned out, the bear was part of a movie shoot. Due to dangerous actors, they kept a group of doctors on set. They had plenty of painkillers on them, as I soon discovered. Edward later told me that the bear was so afraid of me that it ran directly into its cage after I fell from the lift yelling the entire fall. Aren't I graceful? My publicist should call Bear Grylls for his celebrity specials. He wouldn't need to be afraid of eating anything strange, because EVERYTHING would run away from us). And the next thing that happened was that I WAS PUT ON A STRETCHER AND CARRIED INTO A HELICOPTER. With a neck brace.

YES. I AM SO DEAD. THERE IS NO WAY THE PRESS ISN'T FINDING ABOUT THIS. AND DAD. AND GRANDMERE.

I tried to reason with the doctor. I told him that I was fine. But he said it was just the meds talking.

I was so drugged up I started feeling like I was on set of Grey's Anatomy. Yes. I totally expected Callie Torres to wait for me after the landing. And McDreamy to assure me my head is fine (I was so high that I got to choose in which season I would appear). And Bailey would give me some totally useful life advice and April would tell me that renegade weddings are the best. And there would be some tumult happening in the hospital and Jackson would get injured and treated in a bed next to mine. SHIRTLESS.

I didn't get any of this, of course. I got a group of middle-aged doctors in the trauma room assessing my injuries in German. And anyway, because of the neck brace Jackson might as well be the adjacent patient but I couldn't see him on the account of having my neck immobilized.

Then they took me to the CT. Or MRI. Or the X-ray. Or probably ALL of them. it seemed forever and everything was a blur. You know, like that Britney song, except that I wasn't hungover from amazing sex with a stranger.

FINALLY I ended up in a single room. Things started to clear a little (but I don't think it was because of the aspirin). The neck brace was off, but unfortunately something kept me from moving my right leg too much.

Edward showed up.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling a chair closer to my bed. And looking totally SCARED.

"What happened?" I said, but before he could tell me, a doctor walked it (no potential for starring in Grey's Anatomy next season).

"How are you feeling, Miss Thermopolis?" he asked me.

Trust me, it has been YEARS since anyone addressed me by it. If I EVER had been addressed like that, I don't even remember. Isn't it sad? I literally have to have my body broken in half in order to feel normal. I quickly looked at Edward.

"I didn't tell them who you are," he whispered.

"Thank you," I silently said.

"Well," the doctor continued, "you took quite a tumble. But luckily nothing is too badly injured."

TOO BADLY INJURED?

Of course he meant something like, you fell five meters. Be glad you are not in a coffin, or at least having an emergency surgery on your brain. Or are being scanned for possible paralysis. Or having some of your internal organs or limbs removed.

But I was all like, HOW BAD CAN IT BE AND I STILL GET TO GET MARRIED IN TWO DAYS?

I think he saw the panic rising in me.

"You have suffered a concussion. You may experience some of the symptoms in the following days – or weeks, such as headaches, blurred or double vision, also dizziness."

Blurred vision? Like I may see René as my groom? Double vision? So that I wouldn't know which Michael I was supposed to marry? And dizziness? Like, repeating the fall?

But he wasn't done yet.

"Scans have also showed you have a cracked rib. You will not require the surgery. But you will most certainly experience pain when breathing, so you shouldn't exert yourself too much for a few weeks."

Trouble breathing? On my wedding night? And no exertion?

At that moment I totally thought I was in coma and hallucinating. I swear.

But he wasn't done yet.

"Your knee, unfortunately, took quite a blow. You have a partial tear in some of your ligaments. But the ACL is in one piece, which is the most important thing. There are a couple of microfractures in your tibial plateau. Keep the knee iced and use crutches for a week, after that it should get much better."

I don't think I have managed to process this crutches thing yet.

"Anyway," he concluded with a smile. How can you blame him? He doesn't know I am getting married in two days. "You had much luck in the fall, Miss."

I think Edward thoughts were much alike mine. Neither said anything for a few minutes after the doctor left. Then he finally said,

"Concussion, that I had. A bust knee, too. But a cracked rib? That I cannot give you any pointers."

What could I say to that? Thank you? I am happy for you?

It got worse. It can only happen to me.

"Wait, you have something in your hair," he said, leant closer to me and I swear even his touching my hair HURT.

It turned out my frantic combing last night and this morning didn't get rid of all the butter Lars's dream girl threw at me yesterday.

"Did you call Michael?" was the least humiliating thing I could think of to say.

His silence spoke volumes.

I really wish I could come up with some witty remark or optimistic conclusion, but that ability got wings and flew to somewhere safer than a pile of powder.

Well. At least my b-oobs don't burn anymore. Probably because they don't have enough air. Much like the rest of me.

I can't believe I actually wish I was in coma. Then at least I wouldn't have to deal with this. Or breathe.

To Be Continued.

Broughttoyouby:::winter.