by Kristy Tate
Petra planted her feet, squared her shoulders and again held the bill out to the woman, embarrassed that her hand shook so badly that the bill flapped. Trying to sound reasonable even though everyone else had gone berserk, she said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything smaller.” Petra looked pointedly at a small lumpy pouch tied to the woman’s generous hips. “I’m sure you can make change.”
When the woman didn’t respond but stared with a slack-mouth, Petra sighed. “Very well. Keep it.” There went Zoe’s funnel cake, which served her right. Funnel cake denial, the high price of wandering off.
Muffin Face stared at Petra with beady, squinting eyes.
Horse Guy bent to retrieve the first beet she’d thrown, from the dusty road. It had rolled out of the way of the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels and looked, to Petra, no worse than the other smelly vegetables in the woman’s cart. Close up, it looked even uglier.
“No harm done, good mistress,” the guy said to Muffin Face. He polished the beet, leaving a smear of dirt on his breeches, and handed it to the woman. Muffin Face sniffed, stretched her lips in a little smile and fluttered her lashes. Petra’s lips twitched in a smile; the guy had swag. The woman gave Petra another scowl and turned her attention to a pair of women in dusty aprons.
Petra returned the bill to her purse and looked up to find herself nose to chest with Horse Guy. Taking a step back, she realized he was much younger than she’d thought, close, in fact, to her age. She peered at him, wondering what had made him seem older. His build? His swagger?
“I offered her a five,” Petra said.
He looked at her, a smile tugging his lips. “Ah, but five what?”
His smile nearly disarmed her. Still, she tried to hold onto her anger. “A five dollar bill.”
“You offered but one.”
She again drew the bill from her purse. Horse Guy plucked it from her fingers and studied it, front and back, and then cocked his head. “A piece of parchment?”
She took it and waved the bill in his face. “It’s money!”
He rocked back on his heels, considering her. “It has no value here.”
Petra put her hands on her hips and blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Five dollars is a lot for an anemic looking beet!”
“Perhaps, but I’m afraid it’s an unfair price for a turnip.”
“Turnip?”
“Yes, definitely a turnip. Do you not have such vegetables where you’re from?”
She thought of the rows and rows of beautiful produce at Pavilions. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a turnip, but she’d never looked, when passing the produce on the way to the Panda Express counter. She’d certainly never given any thought to discolored beets or turnips. Still, she was quite certain that one single, nasty looking whatever covered with dusty grime shouldn’t cost five dollars. They had larger, prettier vegetables at the dollar store, not that she’d ever bought one.
He chuckled and took her wrist, sending a tingling current through Petra. He led her away from the glares of the gossiping women. Petra allowed him to lead her across the street to the stables, which somehow smelled better than the vegetable cart.
“Can you help me find my sister?” Her voice sounded small. “I really want to go home, and I can’t leave without her.”
“Who?” he asked.
“My stepsister. You saw us earlier.”
“I saw her earlier?”
Petra nodded. “We saw you near the stables…” Her voice trailed away because those stables had looked nothing like where she was now. Sure, horses lined up in their stalls, flicking their tails and munching straw, but that was where the similarities ended. Here tack and whips hung on the wall, and dusty daylight peeked streamed between wooden slats. Straw covered the floor, and cobwebs filled the corners.
“And what does your sister look like?”
“You don’t remember?” She thought of how his wink had sent a tingle up her spine. She wanted to remind him of the wink, but what if he hadn’t been winking at her? He didn’t even remember her. That stung more than it should. She held out her hand to show Zoe’s height. “Kumquat-colored hair, tiny, freckled and bad tempered.”
Petra tore her gaze away to look over the crowd. The square was full of fat, thin, hairy and bald people, not one of them Zoe. She thought of the one other person she had recognized. “How do you know Kyle?”
“What is a Kyle?” He rolled the name over his tongue, as if experimenting with its sound.
“He’s not a what, but a who, and I saw you nodding to him in the street.” Horse Guy was the only person who hadn’t bowed. Her voice softened as she wondered over all the confusing things she’d recently seen. Kyle’s riding a horse seemed even more unlikely than a three legged dog, because, quite simply, she’d never known Kyle to do one thing he didn’t want to do. And three months ago he’d been adamantly opposed to riding a horse. “He was riding a horse.”
Horse Guy blinked. “There are many horsemen in Dorrington.”
“Wait,” her voice squeaked, “Where did you say?”
“Dorrington. Did you think we were somewhere else?”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it. “I need to find Kyle. Can you help me?” She shuffled her feet, sending dust into the air. “He is the only person I’ve seen riding a horse decked out like a rock star.”
“Decked out like a rock star,” he repeated the phrase slowly. “I do not know what that means, but perhaps you refer to the Earl’s son. His horse wears the royal crest.”
A royal crest? “His dad’s name is John.”
“Yes, John Falstaff.”
“Like Shakespeare’s dead-drunk Falstaff?” Her thoughts spun. In Larsen’s AP English class she’d watched all the Shakespeare movies for extra credit. She wouldn’t have thought that Kyle, who arranged his schedule around lacrosse practice, had ever heard of John Falstaff. If he had he’d pulled off the gag with an amazing attention to detail.
Petra frowned. Kyle wasn’t good with details.
The guy’s voice turned hard. “My lady, you are mistaken. My Lord Falstaff is no drunkard; he is a committed protector.”
Kyle’s dad owned a bunch of used car lots and ran commercials featuring girls in string bikinis. Lord and protector weren’t names she’d have given him. “Fine. John Falstaff’s son. I need to speak to him.”
“That will be very difficult. Gaining an audience with the Earl—”
“An audience?” Petra thought of the girls in the TV ads, and her voice squeaked again. She cleared her throat. “I don’t want an audience.”
Horse Guy leaned against the stable wall and studied Petra. “You say you must speak with the Earl’s son.” His voice sounded calculating. “Why?”
Petra flushed. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Horse Guy looked at her blankly, and she tried to think of an old fashioned word, one he might understand. How would Juliette refer to Romeo? “My date.”
He laughed. “Your date?”
“Yes.” Okay, it hadn’t been the best word choice, but since she couldn’t think of a better one, she folded her arms and scowled at him. “Why is that funny?”
He chuckled, his brown eyes warm, his lips curled in a smile. “And who is your fig?”
“Fig?”
“Perhaps a pear or a peach…”
Petra, unused to being teased, clenched her fists and pushed past him. “This whole thing blows,” she said over her shoulder.
He caught up to her in one stride and easily matched her pace. “Blows? What blows?”
Petra flung out her arms. “This! Everything about this blows!” She quickened her step yet he stayed at her side.
“By this, do you mean Dorrington? How can a village blow without wind? It is, perhaps, a bodily blow?”
A bodily blow? As she tried to figure out what exactly was a bodily blow, Petra fought a surge of panic. “This totally, completely sucks!” She sounded hysterical. She was losing it. Pressure mounted i
n her chest. Her head thrummed and her mouth went dry.
“It blows and then it sucks. Sucks what?” He seemed genuinely confused. Somehow this made things worse.
Petra wanted to scream. She wanted to throw more spotty and mushy vegetables. She wanted to go home. She was going to kill Zoe.
“Sucks blood? Sucks life?” Still, he matched her pace, but kept his voice low. People moved out of their way, staring after them.
“Yes! Yes! All of that.”
He took her wrist and another current of warmth spread up her arm. He whirled her to face him, his expression earnest. “My lady, I beg you, for your health, do not make mention of witchcraft again.”
Witchcraft? Who said anything about witchcraft? Shaking loose from his grip and turning her back, Petra lifted her skirt and ran down the street to the square.
Carts in a variety of sizes and shapes parked in the shade of the jousting arena. Farmers, bakers and cloth merchants all called out as she hurried past. Most wore rough cotton clothing in shades of dust. Their leather sandals matched the color of their feet.
Petra dashed through the crowd, overcome by animal odors and the press of too many bodies in too small a space. Looking at the ground, she closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer.
Opening her eyes, she thought she saw a pink flip-flop.
Chapter Four
A cock fight is a blood sport between two roosters (cocks), held in a ring called a cockpit. In Tudor times, the Palace of Westminster had a permanent cockpit, the Cockpit-in-Court. Cocks are almost as disgusting as the people that make them fight.
—Petra’s notes
“Zoe!” Petra pushed through the crowd and nearly tripped over a squealing pig. Grasping onto a vegetable cart, she watched the knee-high creature shoulder through a maze of wagon wheels, crates of produce, men in tights and women in skirts. The pig snorted as it went, as if stating its disapproval of the melee. Petra curled her fingers around the edge of the cart, letting the rough wood dig into her palms. She didn’t recognize anyone. Not one single person wore normal clothes. The merchants, not even the kids looked like they belonged in Orange County. It wasn’t one difference but a combination: Everyone seemed short, dirty and grim. Their mood matched their greasy hair, the chipped and broken fingernails. Everyone except Horse Guy. He didn’t belong here, either.
She studied the people, searching for a few of the beauty standards of OC: a French manicure, the glistening of gloss hair products, the telltale perks of a boob job. But even the women in corsets looked saggy. Petra’s gaze flashed around the square, searching, ignoring the hot Horse Guy.
A mop of bright curls flitted behind a crate of potatoes. “Zoe!” Petra followed, frustration and worry mounting.
The girl didn’t turn but expertly navigated the crowd, expertly navigating through tight clad legs and dust lined skirts. The child held the pink flip-flop in her hand, which surprised Petra, but then when she thought about it, there were so many surprising things, too many to count. A pig on the loose? Toothless middle-aged women? Three-legged dogs? And maybe one three-legged dog was okay, but more than that was just wrong. Petra zigzagged between the carts, searching for Zoe’s curls. Petra spotted the girl rounding a corner.
Thatched-roofed cottages with shuttered windows, white plaster buildings with timber frames, and wooden roofs—Petra hadn’t noticed this area before. Could they be the drama department’s backdrops? Most were two or three stories and quite often the second story leaned out over the first, looking like a beer belly protruding over a belt. All of it was pretty elaborate, even for Mrs. Brighton. Petra rounded the street corner and stopped short in the thick of a cheering crowd.
A sharp tug on her purse startled her, and she looked into the dirty face of a boy holding a sad looking knife. Both grabbed for her cut purse string, but Petra was quicker. She kicked at the kid and he sprinted away, disappearing into the press of bodies.
Clutching her purse, Petra was pushed from behind, jostled, tumbled to the ground. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she faced an iron fence. A stream of red splattered the front of her dress.
Blood? Blood on her dress!
Around her, the people jeered, laughing, slapping each other on the backs and watching a pair of roosters battling on the other side of the iron fence. The birds, mottled brown, black, and white, dripped with gore and mud. The larger one had lost an eye, and blood and mucus stained the side of its face. The smaller, stringier bird lunged for his opponent’s throat. When the larger rooster fell with a dying gurgle, the crowd roared.
Bile surged in Petra’s throat. She gagged, clasped at her calves and laid her head against her knees. She spied her purse and she scooped it up. She uncurled, stood and pushed through the crowd until she reached a stand of trees at the edge of the square.
She tried to take several deep breaths, but she couldn’t calm down. Where were the yellow jackets? No one liked the security guards, Hellsfire Helen or Wicked Will, but she’d wished they were here now. She wanted to hear them tooting their blow-horns and bellowing, “Slow down, Slick! Out of the flowerbeds! Back to Class! Quit killing roosters!”
Where were the flower beds? The parking lot filled with hot, shiny cars? She spotted a church steeple and walked toward it, remembering that after her hasty-prayer she’d thought she’d seen Zoe and her flip-flop.
Outside the church, a stone wall circled a small cemetery filled with headstones. Hitching her dress to her knees, Petra felt someone watching and turned to see a man built like a water-barrel but with noodle-thin limbs. He stared at her legs and licked his lips. Quickly, she dropped her skirts, patted them into place and turned her back on the man. She still felt his gaze.
Patchy grass and a smattering of dandelions and buttercups grew between the rough markers. Here were the flower beds—weeds sprouting up over graves. The chapel she attended with her family was made of red brick and had double glass doors and a shiny white steeple. This church was made of gray stone and had heavily carved wooden doors.
She looked over her shoulder. The man stood still, watching.
***
Emory had followed Chambers out of necessity and justice. Simply put, principle demanded he thwart Chambers’ plan. He’d followed the girl why? Because it seemed she’d already tied him with an invisible string and he was as surely tethered as a donkey to a cart. No principles nor moral standards had anything to do with tagging her. He dodged a boy leading a sickly milk cow, and skirted past the vendors hawking their goods.
He would have walked past Anne without a glance and only stopped when she placed a hand on his arm. “Kind sir, consider my wares?”
Emory gave the girl’s retreating back a long look before giving Anne his attention. He looked into his old friend’s large, sad brown eyes. She had a cloud of brown hair that she wore swept away from her face, but in odd moments, when the hair escaped its pins, as it was wont to do, Anne reminded Emory of nothing so much as a spaniel.
“Are the colors not fine?” she asked.
Emory saw her puzzled expression that traveled from his face to the girl in blue who was quickly disappearing into the crowd. He sighed and smiled. “The finest,” he agreed, his gaze barely touching the stand and its assembly of threads and dyes.
“I’ve also tapestries,” she told him.
“They are well known, my lady. Your father’s fame is well-established.”
“Perhaps you would care to see his work,” she urged.
By now the girl in blue had melded into the crowd. Fingering the threads, Emory said, “Not today, but in two evenings hence.”
Anne’s eyebrows rose. “A meeting, sir?”
“You may find me near the rectory.”
He watched Anne’s eyes light with fire. “But how—”
“’Tis just a meeting,” he told her, modulating his tone so that a passerby would consider them strangers and not conspirators. “The plans are not set. There’s still much to discuss.”
She nodded, fuss
ed over her threads, trying to hide her pleased and hopeful expression.
Worry stirred inside Emory. Anne’s relentless search for vengeance would surely prove dangerous. Emory had learned from hard experience that heaven meted out its own unique justice without need of human interference. The divine wheel of justice might appear slow, but it was steady and sure.
“We will meet,” Anne said. Pink stained her cheeks.
Emory’s gaze swept over the crowd. He’d lost the girl.
“Perhaps I can aid you further?” Anne’s voice brought his attention back to where it belonged.
“No. I have no need.” Emory shook his head, wishing it true.
***
Petra walked through the cemetery, disregarding the dark, stained markers, and headed for a fresh grave. The headstone looked new; grass had yet to grow over the mound of dirt. Petra squatted beside the headstone. Geoffery Carl, born 1589, died 1614.
Forget the stalker. Forget the Royal Oaks Renaissance Faire. Somehow she had landed in the seventeenth century. Was this a dream? She didn’t remember falling asleep. Had she hit her head in the fortuneteller’s tent? At this very moment, was her body lying unconscious in Royal Oaks while her mind played tricks in Elizabethan England?
A tear rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away, knowing her hands, filthy from the fall, would leave a smear of dirt and mascara across her cheek. It doesn’t matter how I look in a dream, she thought as the tears fell faster, bathing her face. She’d had such nightmares before, perhaps not quite realistic as this, but still she’d had those strange dreams where upon waking she’d been surprised to find herself in her own bed. Dreams where she’d forgotten to prepare for a history test, dreams where she’d lost her mother in a crowd, much like the crowd here. But she’d never dreamed of seventeenth-century England before. All those Shakespeare tragedies, Fritz, Richard, Hamlet, Lear, they were dead. No point in dreaming about them four hundred years later.
