A Knight to Remember

by Bridget Essex

So we’re going to the mall.

  I sigh as I park at one of the farthest spots away from the actual mall entrance, what happens to be the only available parking space, which we found only after circling the mall twice. I forgot it was Saturday morning—what a lovely time to go to a mall! If by “lovely,” I meant “packed and unnavigatable,” then yes. We get out of the car, me clutching my almost-empty frappe cup, Virago holding her bottle of water casually as she glances up at the concrete building with her head to the side, as if she’s sizing up a soon-to-be-conquered beast. Her ice-blue eyes glitter in the sunshine, and I can’t help but stare at her for half a heartbeat as she leans against my car door languidly, her scabbard thunking gently against the door.

  “Um…if you could leave the sword in the car…” I gesture to the empty back seat with my frappe cup. “Mall security might not take too kindly to it.”

  “Holly, I can’t leave my sword,” she says with a wry smile, shaking her head, as if I’ve said the most amusing joke as she reaches over her shoulder and pats the hilt. “A knight never leaves her sword behind when beginning a quest,” she tells me like she’s quoted that particular rule perhaps a million times.

  “Well,” I say, my tone wheedling, “this isn’t necessarily a quest so much as a journey to buy you pants,” I point out. “And you really won’t need a sword in there. I promise.”

  Virago folds her arms, her leather gauntlets creaking as she narrows her eyes. “I am a knight with a maiden, and—as such—it is my sworn duty to protect you.”

  My heart is beating so quickly it’s in danger of attacking me. I breathe out for a long moment, try to keep my jaw from dropping onto the ground. Maiden. Protect me? The idea of her protecting me shouldn’t ignite a very serious fire that races through my heart (and between my legs), not because I need protecting…but that she would have thought of such a thing in regards to me. Like she’s actually thinking about me. And my safety.

  That’s so…thoughtful.

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I manage, then, not exactly certain what to say. “But…I don’t need protecting. And it’s a mall. The only slightly aggressive thing in there is the lotion salespeople.”

  Virago gazes at me with her piercing blue eyes, and then nods her head, inclining it toward me with a graceful bend, her wolf tail and long, silken black hair pooling over her shoulder and over her right breast. “I will do as my lady asks of me,” she says softly, and then she’s unbuckling the scabbard from across her breasts, and pulling it over her head in one smooth motion that, for the rest of my life, I’ll see in my happiest dreams. She’s grace personified. I wish I didn’t notice that so much.

  “Thank you,” I manage, unlocking my back door and opening it for her. Virago sets the sword down gently on the back seat, as if she’s setting a relic on an altar and not a gigantic sword on a polyester car seat that’s covered with clumps of shed dog hair.

  And then we’re headed, together, for the mall.

  “So we’ll get you a jacket, and a shirt, and pants, and some shoes and some underwear…” I tick the items off my fingers and hold the door open for her. Virago stops at that, brow raised, and does a little bow, then, hand at the top of the door, the curve of her body complementing mine as she leans over me, the heat of her skin so close I can feel it.

  “After you, m’lady,” she says, inclining her beautiful head and leaning down a little as she whispers those soft, low words into my ear.

  Okay. Would that be considered a come on? Could it be anything but? I shiver a little as her warm breath drifts over the skin of my neck, and I breathe out, walking through the door, trying not to redden. But after I walk through, Virago continues to hold the door open for a woman and a stroller, and a gaggle of teenagers, and then a little old man who pushes his walker ahead of him. So I really shouldn’t feel special. But she certainly didn’t whisper in anyone else’s ear! Right?

  Holly. Seriously. You’re grasping at straws here. I hold onto my frappe’s straw, actually, taking another sip. I realize at that moment that I am literally grasping at straws.

  “Are you from the Knights of Valor Festival?” asks one of the teenagers, a slight brunette with a boy-band-of-the-hour t-shirt and braces, beaming up at Virago as she pauses in the mall’s entryway. Virago follows her through the door, head cocked, looking to me with brows up, eyes appraising.

  “Yes! She is!” I tell the teen, and I take Virago’s arm, my fingers curling around the smooth, warm leather of her gauntlets as I lead her through the second door, into the mall proper, leaving the teenagers behind.

  I’m about to start power walking down the mall corridor toward J. C. Penney’s, but I pause, because Virago is pausing. She’s gazing out at the mall that opens up in front of us with wide eyes, with perfect full lips slightly parted in wonder.

  Huh. It probably would look kind of weird to someone not from this world.

  It’s pretty much like any mall I’ve ever been to. There are free-standing particle-board kiosks with people hawking cell phone cases, overpriced lotion and free piercings to go with your new silver earrings. There’s the fountain in the middle of the mall corridor, right beneath the big skylight dome that looks as if it was (and it really was) built in the eighties, with the cartoon characters sculptures that I remember from my childhood—which now, in adulthood, look a little creepy since they’re so old and flaking paint. The statues stand about a foot shorter than me, in various uncomfortable looking poses, the most deranged one—a Ronald Duckington from a Disney copy-cat cartoon—looks like he has sharp teeth on his beak now, because of how the paint flaked off his face.

  The openness of the middle of the mall shows off the golden bird shapes hanging from the skylights overhead, the skylights covered in bird poop that still lets in a great amount of light to show off the columns and cheap plastic cell phone cases directly beneath them.

  I mean, it’s not the Grand Canyon, but if you were from another world, it’d probably look magical to you, too. The shininess of the plastic alone would probably do it for me.

  “Come on,” I tell Virago with a smile, tugging gently on her arm, and we begin walking down the length of the mall, toward Penney’s.

  For a Saturday, the mall is packed even more than usual, and entire groups of people look at Virago, openly staring (some of the teens even taking surreptitious pictures of her on their cells), but she’s not paying them any sort of attention, instead staring at the mosaic floor, and up at the hanging seagulls. We pause as we pass the fountain because she’s practically obsessed with Larry the talking cartoon cat.

  “It speaks,” she breathes, staring up at it as if it were a statue of a deity.

  “Always wear helmets, even for short bike rides, kids!” says Larry the talking cartoon cat in the same deranged, slightly out-of-tune recording he’s been repeating for over thirty years.

  “Yeah, it does,” I tell her sheepishly, and then, glancing at the fountain in front of us, I dig around in my purse for a penny before I realize what I’m doing. I’m too much a sucker for tradition. My fingers brush against a penny at the bottom of my purse, next to my usual nest of pens and straw wrappers, and I dredge the thin copper coin out, pressing it into her warm palm, as I glance up shyly at her questioning gaze. “I know it’s silly, but ever since I was a kid I do this. It’s this silly thing,” I tell her, licking my lips, “but if you toss it into the fountain,” I explain to her, “and make a wish, maybe it’ll come true.”

  “You have water spirits here, too?” she asks me, one brow raised, and I cock my head for a long moment, not understanding.

  “No—”

  “Then how does the wish come true? That’s how our wishing waterways work. A water spirit accepts the offering of coin and lends us a small amount of her magic to create or accomplish the wish.”

  I stare up at her unblinking for a long moment, then clear my throat. “I never…thought about it. It’s just a superstition, really. It’s not supposed to actually work. I mean
none of the wishes I made here, throwing a penny into a mall fountain, ever actually come true…” I say quietly, trailing off.

  Virago stares down at the penny in her hand and seems to reach a decision of her own, for she nods, curling her long fingers over the coin. She closes her eyes, places her fist over her heart, and then the penny is arcing through the air, glittering in the morning sunshine that drifts down through the skylights. The penny settles with a plop in the water, shimmering as it nestles instantly among the other coins there.

  “It is done,” says Virago, smiling at me. And then she takes up my hand and threads it through her arm again, the curve of her breast pressing against the back of my arm, and we continue walking through the mall like walking arm in arm with a lady knight past the sporting goods store is perfectly normal.

  I take a deep, wavering breath, and another sip of frappe to calm my nerves. Because, of course, my overactive imagination is jumping to all sorts of conclusions. But I have to remind myself that just because Virago took my arm back doesn’t mean anything. It’s a very chivalrous thing to do, and she’s kind of implied that she thinks she has to protect me. Which…while being chivalrous and sweet, still isn’t remotely true. Maybe the reason she took my arm is that she thinks I’ll trip on a candy bar wrapper, and she’s just heading off having to dive to catch me. Yes. That’s totally it. I mean I was totally graceful this morning when she picked me up from sprawling on top of Shelley.

  I grow even redder remembering that.

  By the time that we reach the escalator by Penney’s, my heart is beating too fast, and I wonder if drinking so much espresso so quickly was the best idea. I toss my empty cup into a garbage can and wipe my damp palms on my jeans. Virago has (sadly) let go of me to stare at the escalator with her arms crossed over the breastplate of her armor, and a single, imperious brow raised.

  She looks so out of place here, the wolf’s tail (or, at least, I assume it’s a wolf’s tail—I should ask her about that sometime) over her shoulder, the silver of the fur mixing with the ink-black of her hair, her leather boots straight out of a fantasy novel, her armor scratched and banged up, attention to detail stuff you don’t usually see on replicas. The thing is, I’m starting to realize this is really not a replica.

  People keep staring at her, but not really like she’s an oddity. More like she commands their gaze to gravitate toward her with her regal presence alone. She’s languid and sensual as she strides forward, graceful as a dancer, strength and power radiating off of her like a shimmer. She’s standing with her feet hip-width apart now, as she stares at the escalator, that power drawing me in like a sell, and I’m kind of weak in the knees as I edge over to her from the garbage can, clearing my throat.

  “What is this contraption?” asks Virago then, indicating the escalator with a wave of her hand.

  “That’s…a sort of movable staircase,” I tell her, my eyes flicking to the second level of the mall. “It’ll take us up to the second story where the store is.”

  “Oh no. No,” she tells me firmly. I stare at her perplexed as she frowns. “They used witchcraft to try and make movable staircases in the palace in Arktos City,” says Virago, shaking her head ruefully. “It didn’t work. They are not to be trusted, Holly,” she tells me completely seriously, her bright blue gaze searching mine.

  I should laugh at that statement, but she says it with such strong conviction that I sort of stare at the escalator for a moment, uncertain of what to do.

  “We…um. We could walk all the way to the other end of the mall. It’s where the stairs are,” I tell her, chewing at my lower lip. “Or you could give it a shot. I promise, it’ll last for only a minute, and it’s so quick and easy!” I tell her brightly. “See? Watch me.” I step forward and on to the first step, then take a step down, and a step down again as the escalator keeps its slow, careful ascent going. “See? Piece of cake,” I tell her with a broad smile, crooking my finger toward her. “Want to give it a shot?”

  Virago reaches out her hand, and across the space between us, she takes mine.

  Her face is set in steely determination as our arms draw apart, for the escalator continues in its relentless climb, taking me away from Virago. She breathes out, narrows her eyes and takes one big step forward.

  “Great! Now the other one…” I tell her as her other foot remains firmly on the ground below. Her legs stretch out for a moment, and then she takes that last step forward, finally standing with both feet on the escalator.

  “This is most undignified,” she says, a brow up as she rides the escalator upward with me. I smile at her, shaking my head.

  As if she could ever look undignified.

  And then the escalator ride is over, me stepping off onto the second level, and Virago sort of half stepping/half leaping onto the second floor in one smooth, practiced motion.

  “This is a very magical place, and I quite enjoy it. Except for that,” she says, hooking her thumb over her shoulder and back at the escalator as she tries to keep from smiling, her lips twitching as I lead her toward Penney’s, hiding my own smile behind my hand.

  “We’ll just…walk around the mall on the way back and take the stairs on the far end. You won’t have to take the escalator again,” I promise her, and—completely unbidden by me—she reaches across the space between us and doesn’t take my hand to thread it through her arm. She simply takes my hand to hold it, her warm palm against my own, our fingers laced together as if they were meant to be.

  My heart’s still not stopped beating too much, too fast, too loudly. But, somehow, now it beats even faster.

  “Okay,” I breathe out, dragging out the word as we walk into the inviting bright light of the department store. The only reason I chose this one over the other stores of the mall is that my mother used to bring me and Aidan here when we were little.

  I pause for a moment, my heart still thundering, but for different reasons now. I blink, clear my throat as the memories come rushing back. I have so many of them, all happy memories of Saturday afternoons spent trying on different outfits, my mother and Aidan and I all laughing, getting ice cream after hours of trying on clothes. Just thinking about it, it sounds so idyllic. That was how things used to be. Before the cancer took my mother. I shake myself a little, breathe out, look back at Virago who’s gazing at me in concern, brow creased, squeezing my hand.

  Penney’s, as odd as it sounds, had been one of her favorite places in the whole world.

  “I have happy memories here, believe it or not,” I tell her by way of explanation, laughing a little as I say it—but the laugh sounds wooden as I clear my throat. I tug on Virago’s hand and lead her toward the women’s section. “Here we are!”

  “Oh,” says Virago after a long moment as I sweep my arm over the rows of skirts and blouses and pants and dresses. She glances up at the mannequins at the edge of the display, all wearing the summer’s latest short skirts and fashionable dresses, her brow furrowed, her head slowly shaking. “I don’t…think that any of this is really very me,” she says quietly, again putting her other hand on her side, her hip leaned forward, curving toward me.

  “Oh?” I blink. “I mean, they’re not armor,” I tell her quickly, but she’s still shaking her head.

  “They’re lovely,” she tells me, her voice low as she grimaces a little, her head to the side. “But do they have anything more…ah…” She trails off, sweeps her hand down to indicate her clothes. “Less lovely?”

  I blink again. “Oh.” I realize what she’s saying and glance over the racks. There’s really nothing more boyish in the women’s section this season. I turn and look toward the men’s section, loop my arm through hers. One of my old girlfriends always bought her clothes in the men’s section. I nod at her encouragingly. “Let’s try here…”

  Virago’s smile lights up the room as I lead her toward the (albeit man-shaped) mannequins that casually display shirts and pants and jackets and ties. “Yes,” says Virago with smooth surety. “This is it.”


  The salesman in the men’s department takes one look at Virago, at her armor and wolf’s tail and massive leather boots, his eyes going wide, and then he simply smiles with a small shrug. Maybe he gets all types here. “How can I help you?” he asks us, and I let go of Virago’s hand as she prowls forward through the rows and racks of suits and jackets and ties and slacks like she’s a woman on a mission.

  “She’s looking for an outfit or two,” I tell him. “There was an…accident, and she lost her luggage. And…she’s here for the Knights of Valor Festival…” All of it sounds like a lie, but the man is nodding, his head to the side as he considers Virago, not even really listening to me.

  “What are your measurements, ma’am?” he asks, wandering after her with his tape measure.

  Virago is feeling the weight and heft of a jacket’s sleeve. “I rather like this one,” she says, mostly to herself, but she’s gazing up at me as she says it, her bright blue eyes flicking to me as if she’s considering me, too. She glances sidelong at the man who takes the tape measure from around his neck. “I’d like this one,” she tells him, then, but he gestures toward the fitting room, and then back at me, brows raised.

  “Would the lady like to…try it on?” he’s asking, tilting his head toward the nearest fitting room. “This one is unisex,” he says, pointing to it.

  “Yeah, try it on,” I tell her with a smile, gesturing toward the fitting rooms. I grab a dress shirt, a tie and some pants, guessing on the sizes as I usher her toward the rooms. “You go in here, take off your clothes and try these on. To see if they fit,” I explain, when she looks perplexed, glancing over her shoulder at the attendant guy who’s still watching us, now both brows up. I guess most people don’t need to have fitting rooms explained, but sometimes they do, okay?

  “Give us just a second…” I mutter to the guy, and hold open one of the fitting room doors for her, handing over the rest of the clothes.

  Virago gazes down at me, head a bit to the side, working her jaw for a heartbeat, before I clear my throat. “Do you need help?” I ask.