When I reach the Tower of London front gates, a small bar in the main door opens to reveal a pair of familiar eyes.
“Password?” a voice calls out, muffled by the thick wood door.
I blink in confusion. “Um. I’m Rowena Duncan, the new face painter. I interviewed with Jeff—erm, King Geoffrey—two days ago.”
The eyes blink back, and I could swear there’s a smile in them now. “Password?” the voice demands again.
“Um, I don’t have one.” I lower my gaze to my rainbow toes and wish Will would come by to vouch for me.
“That’s a pity. We sure could use a face painter.” The bar starts to slide back across the door, covering up one eye. Then, before I can protest, it opens back up. “But of course, you could always guess . . .”
That voice. It’s so familiar, and so are the eyes. I recognize the tremor of laughter when he speaks, the hint of mischief in his irises . . .
I smile and look directly through the slit in the door. “How about . . . Will Fuller should be king because he’s the most awesome person at the faire?”
There’s an outburst of muffled laughter, then the door opens. Will’s standing there, dressed like a Renaissance peasant, a grin wide on his face. “Knew you’d guess it on the first try.”
“I had a feeling the gatekeeper might have a bit of an ego, is all.”
“If I was an egomaniac I’d have asked you to go on.” Will shuts the door behind me as I step inside the faire. He’s still grinning when he asks, “How are you?”
“Tired,” I tell Will, even though I’m sure he was only talking pleasantries. I’ve been up since about five, worrying and unpacking, then packing again. Before then I’d slept only fitfully, upset about how things went down with Kara and Meg. The nerves and the fatigue all add up to me being on edge.
“Well, we can fix that.” Will holds up what looks to be a canteen made out of leather. “Ramón makes some strong Highlander Grog. All the energy, none of the jitters. I could use a refill, so how about you check in with Lindy and get your clothes and then I’ll take you for a coffee fix?”
I say yes to that and his mouth parts into a goofy smile. He looks like he hasn’t shaved since I saw him last. The scruff on his jaw is fitting, and it makes him look a little older.
“Great,” he says. “We’ll have to get a sticky bun, too. Trust me.”
Will picks up my suitcase easily, as if all my clothes and art supplies are made of helium.
“Oh. I can—”
“I’ll get it,” Will says, and he starts off through the village. I follow. “You need to go to Lindy right away. If Jeff catches you in street clothes . . .” Will slides his finger left to right across his throat and makes a choking noise. I get the picture. “And believe me. He sees everything.”
That kind of creeps me out, so I walk closer to Will, as if he could protect me from Jeff’s all-seeing eye. But soon enough we’re on a path that I recall from the tour of the faire, and Will points to the left.
“Lindy’s shop is that way. Think you can find it?”
A ripple of panic shoots through me. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps that Will might be with me all day long? Or at least that someone I knew would always be within a comforting distance.
“But where are you going?”
Will must sense my apprehension because he looks at me the way one might look at a crying child. “I’m off to put your things in your tent. I’ll meet you at Lindy’s, okay?”
No. “Sure.”
Will does an about-face and leaves me in the street. My insides sink as he gets farther and farther away, whistling as he disappears into the forest with all of my art supplies and underwear. I screw up some courage and set off toward Lindy’s, which is even easier to find than I imagined. Her particular cottage is a lovely shade of pink, and the windows are filled with beautiful, hand-crafted dolls, some of them with wings, magic wands, and crowns of flowers.
I open the screen door and find Lindy bent over an antique sewing machine, the kind that requires you to push on a pedal to make the motor run. She guides a strip of violet fabric through, and when it’s sewn all the way up to the end, she finally sees me standing there.
“It’ll be a corset fit for Queen Elizabeth herself, not that the good queen has need for something so saucy.” Lindy pushes her glasses up to the top of her head and beams at me. “Or it could be yours. They’re fun to wear on an evening out, you know, as a top, if you want to catch someone’s eye.”
Of course I can’t help but think of Christian, even though the thought of him seeing me in something as revealing as a corset is enough to make me break out in red splotches all over.
Lindy notices and chuckles as she pushes herself up from her seat and crosses to a rack of clothes on the front wall. “I suspected so. Well, they’re not purple corsets, but these will do just fine, I suppose.”
She takes three dresses off the rack and holds them out to me, spread over her arms. They all have the same look—plain, with a laced-up bodice that will hug me from waist to armpit, and a flaring skirt. All have a flowing peasant-looking top underneath them. The colors aren’t meant for royalty, but they’re still pretty. One is the color of red wine, one is a rich russet, and the last is a dark forest green. It looks like she’s holding autumn in her arms.
“Hard to believe these fit my Susannah only last year.” Lindy shakes her head. “Shot up like a weed over the winter. I suppose she takes after her father’s side. Oh, but these colors will look lovely on you, Ro, with your dark eyes and hair.”
Lindy has me try on one of the dresses, the red one, and teaches me how to lace up the front properly. In the end, I transform into a proper Renaissance maiden. The dress looks like it was made for me, fitting snugly in all the right places and falling elegantly from my waist to the floor.
Lindy stands behind me, a satisfied smile on her face. “Just as I thought. Perfect for your skin tone. Unfortunately, your feet look much too small for Susannah’s shoes. She wears a nine.”
“I guess my flip-flops will have to do,” I say, frowning as I think of Jeff. “I wear a seven.”
“Just don’t pick up your skirts. You’ll be fine.” Lindy smoothes a wrinkle on my shoulder. “But you’ll need to go to The Bone Needle and pick up some sandals eventually. Davis will fix you right up.”
“Thank you so much, Lindy.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says. She casts a glance out the window and her smile broadens before she takes my other two dresses and hangs them back up. “You can come by for these later, dear. I suspect you have plans right now.”
Just then the bell over her door jingles and Will enters, taking off his hat and shaking his hair out. His gaze falls on me and he says, “Wow, Ro. You look great.”
I blush while Lindy agrees with him. “Like she was born to be a Renaissance maiden, right?”
“Truly.” Will looks at me a while longer, then suddenly rocks back on his heels. “Well, I think we’d better get some of Ramón’s sticky buns before the crowd gets here.”
“They go in minutes!” Lindy says. “Go on. I’ll keep these other dresses until later. Just come by whenever you have a moment.”
I thank Lindy again, and follow Will out of the shop and into the street. It’s so quiet compared to how I saw it the other day that it’s almost spooky.
“What time do the gates open?” I ask.
“Ten, and they don’t close until seven.”
“That’s a long day.”
Will laughs. “Aye, but it goes quickly. Especially if you’ve got two jobs. By the way, Jeff radioed that you’d be starting in the tavern today, so we’ll head over after breakfast. Ooh, I can smell them now . . .”
Will practically jogs off down the street and I take off after him. That lovely sweet smell I’d noticed the other day is there, but not yet any of the grilling meat or potatoes smells. Will heads up the front stairs of a one-level store, its windows a diamond pattern of glass and what look
to be bona fide lead joints, although I’m sure it’s merely a careful reproduction. Over the doorway hangs a wooden sign with one simple word on it: BAKERY.
I follow him up the steps of the bakery and inside, where the heavenly scent of cinnamon and bread greets me, far more powerful than it was outside. There’s a plump woman behind the counter whom Will waves to, and she smiles before disappearing into the back, where I hear some rummaging around.
When she comes back, she’s got a yellow box in her hand. She sets it on the counter and takes out some twine to tie it up, but Will waves her away. “No need, Magda. We’re going to dig right in. This is Ro. She’s going to be our new face painter. I thought I’d introduce her to Ramón’s best work first.”
Magda smiles, revealing a large gap between her two front teeth. “Eh, better than his mystery stew, that’s for sure.”
Will pulls a face that makes me certain I will never touch Ramón’s “mystery stew.”
“Seriously. See ya tonight!”
She waves, but since Will is already turned around and halfway out of the shop, I wave back in his stead. Magda’s grin widens, the gap in her teeth large enough to be the perfect spot for a soda straw.
Will’s waiting for me, box open, by the steps. He has a sticky bun in his hand and a large hunk of it in his mouth, which he chews with gusto. He thrusts the box toward me.
“Mnnnhhf fhhhhmm fmmhh.” Will swallows and then grins sheepishly. “Sorry. What I meant to say is that these are the best things Ramón makes. Honestly. He’s a decent cook, but he is a magical baker.”
I select a sticky bun that is just dripping with sugary goo, pecans glistening on the top. To my delight, it’s warm. I take a bite.
“Ramón’s the head cook. Organizes all the food stands and tents around here, does the staff cooking, et cetera, et cetera. Magda’s his backup. She’s decent enough with pies and cookies, but she’s got nothing on Ramón with these. These are just—”
I let loose a sound that is half pleasure, half surprise, and completely primal.
“Agreed,” Will says, laughing.
I barely hear him. The sticky bun in my mouth has rendered me useless. It’s just a ball of warm dough, cinnamon, butter, and sugar. It’s a heck of a lot better than anything at TK’s. It might be better than anything I’ve had in town. Or anywhere.
We take a while, savoring each glorious bite in silence. The village around us is starting to come to life. Shopkeepers are opening up windows and doors, straightening displays, and chatting with one another before the day begins. It’s a strange thing to behold, because as modern as the people seemed at the start, by the time I’ve finished my sticky bun, they’re speaking in Elizabethan English, and I could swear I’ve stepped into another world.
“It’s a little like Brigadoon, isn’t it?” I ask Will.
“It is, but easier to find. It’s in most of the tourist guides.” Will snorts at himself. He licks sugary goo from his index finger and then stands, glancing up the street. “I should probably get back to the parking lot. People come early and wait at the gates. The tavern is on the other side, almost exactly. Think you can find it?”
I stand and look around, coming up blank. “The other side of what?” I ask him.
“Fair question.” Will removes something from the inside of his vest, and I realize it’s a King Geoffrey’s Faire brochure. He unfolds the trifold and points at the map printed there. “The whole faire makes a big loop. We’re here, in the main village. This is where the more touristy shops are. Lindy’s, Robbie’s art shop that we call the Michelangelo Gallery—you really should check that out sometime—The Bone Needle for leatherwork, and tons of craft places that sell everything from soaps and incense to dragon tapestries. If you go off that way . . .”—Will points over to our left, where it’s woodsy and there’s a small bridge crossing a stream—“you’ll see the kid’s section. That’s where your face painting tent is, and the jousting ring is on the other side. Keep walking on that loop, past all the toy shops and the petting zoo, and that’s the grittier part of the faire. The tavern, the jouster’s pub, the smaller acts like Patsy and Quagmire’s mud show and the acrobats, and a big chapel where our king holds ceremonies and public announcements. Farther down is Craftsman’s Row, with the blacksmith, silversmith, and carpenter.” Will’s finger follows the loop around. “Then you’re back to the gates and the village.”
“So basically just follow this loop around?”
Will nods. “If this were a clock, we’re at six, and you need to be at twelve.”
“I think I can handle that.”
Will hands me the brochure, which I tuck into one of the convenient pockets of my dress. “All right, good luck serving. I’ll see you tonight!”
I don’t know why or how I’ll see him tonight, but it’s reassuring that he thinks so, so I set off toward the woodsy part of the road with the bridge. I’m halfway across the sturdy structure when I realize that, instead of plain boards holding up the handrails on both sides, fat trolls like the one I spotted at the entrance are doing the work. I smile at them as if they can see me, and walk on.
After coming out of the woods, I no longer feel nervous about finding my way. Just as Will said, the kid’s section and petting zoo is easily spotted, and the jousting field takes up a whole corner to the right. I know that if I walked across it right now and through the woods, I might be able to find Jeff’s trailer again. But more than that, I can smell the tavern, and I smell it long before I spot it.
The road opens up and the businesses here are much more sprawling and farther apart. In the middle of the square, a large Tudor-style building emits steady, mouthwatering scents of roasting meats and frying grease from several large chimneys. On one side of the building, there’s a patio that’s nearly as big as the building itself, and it houses probably twenty tables. The tables, and the patrons if there were any sitting there, are beautifully shielded from the harsh glare of the summer sun by a canopy of crisscrossing wood and waxy, leafy vines growing overhead.
Suddenly the phrase “beer garden” makes sense.
A blond girl who looks just a bit older than me bursts out of the front door with a laugh. She’s holding a pewter mug that’s spilling over with something frothy. On second glance, I decide that everything about her seems to be spilling over: her low, breathless laughter, the loose tendrils falling from her braids; even her ample bosom can hardly be contained in her bodice.
“Quit your bellyaching, Ramón. I’ll get to the silverware soon, I promise,” she calls into the building before she sees me, and when she catches sight of me, everything about her becomes even more radiant. I know right away it must be Susannah—I catch the similarities to Lindy in her eyes and the curve of her mouth, but mostly in the warmth she exudes. She cocks her head at me. “You’re wearing my dress, so you must be Ro.”
Before I can answer, a tall, skinny man marches outside. His glossy black hair is flattened by a hair net, and his golden brown skin has stripes of flour all over it. He’s dressed in what appears to be a nearly full-body leather apron over a tunic, replete with a scowl. When he speaks it’s with a slight Spanish accent, and he keeps his sentences brusque and percussive. It’s like he hates talking, so he does it as little as possible. “Suze, silverware and napkins. Now.”
“Cool your jets, Ramón. The new girl’s here. Don’t scare her.” She turns back to me, chin raised high. “I’m Susannah. Everyone calls me Suze. And this poor guy is Ramón.” Suze turns back to Ramón and sticks her tongue out at him. “We have a new tavern wench to train, so do be on your best behavior.”
Ramón doesn’t answer, but he looks me up and down, nodding once. “You’re just as Will said.” He doesn’t elaborate on that, which makes me wonder what, exactly, Will might have said. “Suze will train you right. Listen to her. She’s my best wench.”
“Ah, Ramón, quit. You’ll make me sniffle with all that sappiness,” Suze says, and rolls her eyes heavenward. She steps down from th
e tavern’s porch and grabs my hand, pulling me inside. “Wench bootcamp. Come on. We open in an hour.”
The inside of the tavern couldn’t be more rustic, which is exactly what I was imagining. Long tables span the length of the place, with a few smaller tables off the side, closer to the bar. There are two sets of swinging wooden doors in the back, where I have to assume the kitchen is, and in between is one wide fireplace. Nothing’s burning in it right now, seeing as how it’s the dead of summer, but I can guess that on the chilly nights here in the woods, it’s a great draw to faire patrons and workers alike. Above my head there are wooden beams that cross the high, cathedral-like ceiling. They’re roughly cut and barely varnished, as if someone hauled them straight out of the forest and propped them there, and between those beams hang iron chandeliers that have fake candles flickering in each holder.
I decide that it’s pretty in an untamed, uncivilized kind of way.
Suze takes her time explaining the ebb and flow of the usual crowds on weekdays and weekends, the general areas for different servers, what we’re supposed to do in our downtime (unpacking boxes of sporks and condiments), and filling me in on Ramón’s managing style. “He may not look like much, but if you serve a turkey leg that’s too cold or an ale that’s too flat, he morphs into the Hulk. I’m telling ya . . . ,” Suze says. But then she gets down to wench bootcamp, and she wasn’t kidding about it.
First, we merely practice holding three or four steins of water in each hand and carrying them from the bar to the table in the farthest corner. It seems easy at first, but after three trips, my arm muscles are crying uncle and shaking from exhaustion. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Suze gives me a tray stacked with steins and a normal food order. The weight of it makes me feel like I could crumple to the floor, and raising it any higher than my elbow is impossible.
“How on earth do you do this?”
My Faire Lady Page 5
