My Faire Lady

by Laura Wettersten

  Somehow, the thoughts of him strengthen my resolve. I will get this job. I will spend my summer in the middle of nowhere. I will get over Kyle.

  I smooth down my hair, take a deep breath, and ease the car back onto the road, taking care to check all mirrors before I merge. It’s as if my GPS senses my newfound determination, as she gives me what must pass for words of encouragement in her little world. “In one half mile, veer right onto County Road 4.”

  Once again I do what she says, and I find myself on a wandering country road with quaint old farmhouses and ancient-looking trees.

  Soon I start seeing fewer and fewer houses, and more and more trees. Pretty soon I’m also the only car on the road, and there’s no sign of civilization anywhere. I’m still on track according to the GPS, though, so I keep driving, but it’s unnerving feeling like I’m the only one out here, and it seems as if I’ve been driving for days. Probably because the road is so curvy, I can’t go any faster than thirty miles per hour. Finally, Snooty British GPS tells me to turn right, and my only option is a dirt road, which can’t be it.

  But then my eyes fall on something strange. It’s a wooden post about three feet high that might have had a mailbox on top of it at one point. In place of a mailbox, however, sits a little troll.

  Not a real troll, obviously. I’m not hallucinating or anything. It’s a wooden one, and it’s charming in the way all trolls are charming—ugly enough to be cute. Its arms tuck under its fat belly, its legs bow in so that its knees touch, and it has the funkiest looking beard I’ve ever seen.

  I take the weird little guy as a sign and turn down the road. After all, the ad did say remote. Maybe these artists don’t want to be disturbed.

  My car rumbles and shakes along the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust as I go. A canopy of trees arches over my head, and the sun flashes through gaps in the leaves, bright and golden. The colors blur like watercolors as I drive, and I long to be able to capture them with a brush and canvas. I’m grinning like an idiot, thinking about how beautiful the woods are, when they suddenly stop. I’m so startled at the sudden change that I slam on my brakes.

  In front of me, stretching as far as I can see in either direction, is a wide open field cut into the forest. And in this field, like glistening sequins, hundreds of cars are parked in neat rows. To my right is a tall pole with a large painted wooden sign that points to the left. I read it desperately, trying to get my bearings.

  THIS WAY TO THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, it says. What?

  I stare at it some more, as if the words will somehow make more sense if I just give them more time. A knock at my window makes me yelp in terror. A guy in a leather vest and a billowy shirt motions at me to roll my window down. I do.

  He flashes a smile that, in any other situation, might be handsome. Right now I just find it confusing. “Good morrow, my lady. May I be of assistance?”

  All I can do at this point is hold the printout of the ad in front of his face and make some sort of weird noise meant to ask a question. His smile becomes an amused smirk.

  “Aye, my lady. You have come to the right place. If you would allow me the honor, I can escort you to the king myself. If you would kindly park your carriage, I will assist you anon.” I stare in response, which makes him clear his throat, possibly to cover a chuckle. He motions toward an empty parking spot at the end of one of the long rows, politely telling me to get a move on. In my rearview I can see that I’m holding up a line; a few cars have appeared behind me, and the driver of the one directly in back is tapping his steering wheel impatiently.

  I ignore him and turn back to the guy at my window, finally finding my voice to ask, “But what is this place?”

  The guy dips his head in a slight bow, eyes twinkling at mine as they connect. “My lady . . . Welcome to King Geoffrey’s Faire!”

  2

  FRIDAY

  As soon as I step out of the car I hear strange music off in the distance. It sounds like an Irish jig, with some sort of flute and a low-pitched drum. Those who have parked their cars close to mine climb out with smiles on their faces and walk assuredly toward an arch on the other side of the field. The fancy block letters painted on it are big enough to read and confirm that this is, indeed, King Geoffrey’s Faire. That’s good. The dude in the leather vest might be crazy, but at least he tells the truth.

  He appears at my side with another slight bow and I can’t help but let out a startled laugh.

  “So King Geoffrey’s Faire is . . . ?”

  “A Renaissance Faire, my lady.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Will.”

  “Rowena. Ro.” I shake his offered hand, his callouses scratching against my palm lightly, tickling. His grip is gentle, not at all like my father’s I’m-a-Duncan-and-I-mean-business handshake. I squint at him. “So a body art specialist would be . . . ?”

  “Ah, you’ve come to be our new face painter?”

  Face painting. I let out a relieved breath. Sure, some of the possibilities my imagination conjured seemed interesting, maybe even exciting, but other possibilities had been just plain disturbing. Face painting I can do. Just little kids and glittery butterflies and stuff, right? Has to be easy.

  “I guess,” I say to Will. “I didn’t really know what I was applying for. I just, um . . .”

  “You just . . . ,” Will prods, leaning in toward me slightly.

  “Wanted a place to get away,” I finish, embarrassed, and Will nods as if he understands completely.

  “Nothing wrong with that. That’s why we’re all here.” I look back up at him and he’s got that kind smile on his face again. He’s dropped the fancy talk and the slight accent he was using. His real voice is slightly less robust, and warmer as well. “That, and we’re all sort of geeky history buffs. Or people who believe in dragons. Take your pick.”

  He laughs at that and starts walking, and I can only assume I’m supposed to follow. He’s not going toward the arch like everyone else, though. He’s veering off to the right.

  “But isn’t—”

  “We’re taking the back way,” he says, angling his head at me. “Jeff—that is, King Geoffrey—runs his whole kingdom from a luxurious trailer in the campgrounds. We can’t let the peasants see that.”

  “I see,” I say, even though I really don’t.

  There is a wall around King Geoffrey’s Faire that is made entirely of logs standing upright, twice my height and whittled to points on the tops like sharpened pencils. It extends out from the front gates on either side, disappearing into a forest to the left. We head into the forest, keeping next to the wall. I can’t see much of the faire in the small gaps between the logs as I’m walking by, which makes me wonder why the fence is so high and the tops are so sharp. Are they trying to keep people out, or keep people in?

  Just as I’m wondering it, Will stops at a section of the wall, lifts up a bolt that I hadn’t noticed, and a dwarf-size door swings open. He grins at me. “The back way.”

  As I duck through the door, I feel like the air around us has changed somehow, like now that I’m inside the wall, I’m in on some sort of secret. The trail is just narrow enough that two grown people can’t fit side by side, so Will walks slightly ahead, leading the way. It’s heavily wooded and I try to keep up with his surefooted stride, carefully avoiding tree roots and stones as I go. I steal a few looks at him when I can, because he seems like maybe he could be kind of cute, though it’s hard to tell in that getup. What I can tell is that he’s got a nice build, and he manages to show it in spite of his oddly puffy shirt and pants. He’s wearing a feathered cap now, which he produced from his back pocket like magic. It hides most of his golden brown hair, and what’s visible curls up around the hat, as if out of habit.

  The woods thin out, and I can tell we’re near the faire. The music is louder now, and I can hear voices talking and laughing, some as robust as Will’s and using the same accent and old-fashioned language. We pass the back sides of buildings, and I feel like I’m walking through som
e ancient alleyway.

  “What is all of this?” I ask.

  Will merely shrugs. “The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.”

  “Seriously?”

  Will snorts. “No. Not seriously.” He makes a wide, sweeping motion to indicate all the buildings in the row. “These are the shops. Anything you could possibly want from a Renaissance Faire is all right here at your fingertips. Costumes, dolls, figurines, weapons . . .”

  I feel my eyes widen. “Weapons?”

  “What’s a knight without a sword, my lady?”

  Knights. Of course there are knights here. How silly of me to forget the knights.

  “And speaking of the knights, this is what we call the backstage for the joust.”

  I look where Will is pointing. The forest has thinned out even more, though the big trees that remain provide plenty of shade. The knights’ backstage looks so much like the set of an epic war movie I can hardly believe it. There are swords and spears and shields, all in racks or haphazardly leaning against trees or strewn about on the ground. There are horses everywhere as well, but not just any horses. These horses are huge, with hooves as big as my head, and they’re draped in gorgeous quilts of bold jewel tones.

  By far, though, the most impressive thing in the camp are the knights themselves. They’re sitting proudly on their steeds, all clad in armor of shining bright silver that creaks every time one of their horses makes a move. Though they don’t have their helmets on yet, they’re still impressive. Bigger than I thought possible, like how my jock friends look when they have all their football pads on. They talk with one another, laughing and gesturing as though the armor doesn’t weight them down at all. Behind them, at the edge of the trees, is a huge gate, much like the wall that surrounds the faire, with tall logs and sharp points.

  “It’s almost showtime,” Will says, leaning close to me. He points to the gates and I understand: On the other side, an audience awaits.

  “Hey, Indy!” one of the knights yells, and Will waves. I turn in the direction of the voice, and realize for the first time that one of the knights is a girl.

  She clucks her tongue at her horse and races over, armor clanging the whole way. She’s got bright red hair that’s cut in chunky spikes. It reminds me of fire. Will beams at her. “Going to win today?”

  “Oh yeah. Big Red’s itching to move. Grant’s going down,” Sage says loudly and over her shoulder so that the knights behind her can hear her trash talk. She turns back, looks me over, then asks Will, “Who’s the newbie?”

  “Sage, this is Ro. Ro, Sage.” Sage bends down and shakes my hand rather enthusiastically, and she rolls her eyes as another knight rides up, his horse bumping into Sage’s. The animals give each other an annoyed glance, one that their owners give each other at the exact same time.

  “This is Grant,” Sage says to me as if it’s an apology. “He’s about to get his ass kicked.”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  “Please,” Sage says to him with a laugh. “You’re just sore that a woman can handle a jousting lance better than you.”

  Grant looks at Will, more amused than ashamed. “Gotta love a woman who knows what she’s doing with a big stick.”

  Sage huffs but I let out an unladylike guffaw at that, and Will looks at me, approval stamped all over his face. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine around here, Ro.”

  “I haven’t got the job yet.”

  “Aye,” Will agrees, though it’s not in his fake accent. I wonder if it’s just habit at this point. His gaze shifts to something over my shoulder, and he speaks to Sage out of the corner of his mouth. “Richard’s coming.”

  “Crap. The old man’s been on a rampage lately . . .”

  Sage and Grant have just enough time to wince at each other before a booming voice calls out, “Sage! Grant! I swear, if you’re late for the show again, I’ll put you in the stocks and let the tourists throw rotten tomatoes at you!”

  “Somehow, I don’t think he’s kidding,” Grant whispers.

  “Roger that.” Sage pulls on the reins and turns her horse. “See ya, Indy!”

  We watch Sage and Grant ride off, racing each other to the edge of the forest, where an impatient and burly older man gestures angrily at them.

  Will snorts. “Richard runs a tight ship. He’s nearly as bad as Jeff.”

  My stomach tightens into a nervous knot, and it must show on my face because Will says, “Don’t worry. Jeff’s not awful, he’s just . . . a stickler for the rules. All you have to do is pretend that the last five hundred years didn’t exist and you’re golden.”

  “Oh, it’s that easy, huh?” I quip, and Will’s mouth twitches into a smile.

  “Come on. Let’s cut through the backstage.”

  I follow Will as he moves deftly around the trees and swords and other various knight equipment. We pass the knights who are ready to go out and perform, and I see Sage look through the logs to peek at the crowd. She has her helmet on, and the only reason I know it’s her is because of her horse’s green quilt.

  When I turn my gaze back to the path, there’s another horse coming our way with a knight on top. He’s straight-backed and broad-shouldered, clearly confident and comfortable with himself. He already has his helmet on, and the beautiful white horse he’s riding is decorated with a quilt in a velvety deep blue. A design in silver stitching decorates the quilt as well, and as the knight nears us I realize it forms the profile of a wolf. The detail and artistry of it make me stare in awe. Not that any of the other knights look shabby, but this one looks like royalty.

  Will greets him, and I note that it’s not with the same warmth he had for Sage. “Christian.”

  “Will,” the knight says, and pulls off his helmet.

  It takes every scrap of willpower I possess not to gasp. The knight is, quite possibly, the hottest boy I’ve ever seen. He’s got thick black hair that hangs just past his ears, tanned skin, and eyes that match the deep blue of his horse’s quilt. Against his skin and dark hair, they almost glow. He turns them on me and smiles in a way that makes my legs feel absolutely useless.

  Holy crap. I’ve just met Prince Charming.

  “My lady,” he says and dips his head at me.

  The urge to curtsey in response is nearly irresistible. I bow my head back instead, because it seems like the more appropriate thing to do. “Sir.”

  I feel his gaze roam down my whole body, from my V-neck (which I just realized is a bit low cut) to my rainbow toes and back up. Normally I’d whack a guy upside the head for that kind of ogling, but with Prince Charming I find myself hoping that he likes what he sees.

  Well. Isn’t this a pleasant surprise? Who knew a geeky history buff who lives out in the woods could look like that? I have seriously underestimated this so-called community of artists.

  I’m picturing Kyle in a jealous rage, trying to challenge a knight for my honor, when Christian says to Will with a grin, “I think I’d rather have your job today, Fuller.”

  “You couldn’t handle my job, Christian.”

  Christian’s gaze settles on me again, and his eyes are definitely not on my face. “I think I could handle it just fine.”

  He tips his head at me again, this time making such intense eye contact that I feel like maybe someone should ready the smelling salts. Then he gives his pretty horse a kick in the ribs and is gone, the clomping of hooves growing fainter and fainter. I watch until he disappears through the gates and the crowd behind them roars.

  I turn to Will. “Is he the best knight or something?”

  “He’s . . .” Will looks upward, as if the right words are printed on the leaves overhead, then he says, “He’s the most popular. Come on, Jeff’s trailer is way in the back.”

  I can’t tell if his tone is resigned or simply irritated. Either way I don’t question him any further about Christian. We walk on until we’ve arrived at a small trailer, the old-fashioned metal kind that people used to pull behind their trucks for campin
g trips. There are a few plastic chairs under a retractable awning, one of them occupied by a girl with dreads and a huge ring in her nose that goes well with her bull-like glare.

  “Your competition is a little scary,” Will muses quietly, and I nod, suppressing a nervous giggle. Then he clears his throat and says in a louder voice, the one he used in the parking lot, “Well, fair lady, I bid you good fortune.”

  He dips down in a bow before he leaves, and just for fun, I curtsey back, pulling my skirt out wide. I find myself smiling as he walks away. I’m still smiling when I sit down next to the girl with the dreads, but she wipes the smile clean off of my face with her dagger-like stare. She clutches a giant leather portfolio closer to her body, as if she suspects I want to steal it.

  I try to put her at ease. “I’m Ro,” I say, and extend a hand.

  She does not shake it. Nor does she offer her name. I clear my throat and try again.

  “So what do you do?”

  She continues to stare at me suspiciously, as if small talk is the work of the devil or something. “Art.”

  Needless to say, I’m relieved when a middle-aged guy peeks his head out of the trailer and asks for the next candidate. Scary Art Girl gets up and stalks into the office, throwing me another vicious glance.

  Jeff gives me an apologetic smile. “Hi. I’m Jeff. I’ll be right with you, um . . .”

  “Rowena Duncan,” I supply and smile brightly back. “I called earlier. You said if I made it by four o’clock—”

  “Ah. Right, right,” Jeff says. “I’ll be with you in a few.”

  His office door slams and I’m alone with my thoughts. I hear horse hooves galloping in the distance and the cheers of a crowd, and I wonder if Prince Charming—I mean, Christian—is jousting right now.

  Beyond that, though, all I can hear is the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and the occasional bird singing its song. It’s pleasant. Peaceful. Sure, if I stay here all summer, I’ll miss Meg and Kara, but I’ll have some quiet time to myself. No honking cars. No TVs. No gum-smacking freshman girls. Best of all? No chance of running into Kyle.