* * *
“You should’ve left your hair curly, Anne. It’d fit the costume better.” Mom fusses at the lace of my sleeve and sets her disapproving gaze on my flat-ironed hair. “At least pull it back into a bun or something. And wear a headband of flowers, both of you.”
“I will.” And maybe I’ll add some wings too. I have white gauzy ones with green dots and glitter that’ll go nicely with this gown.
“Make sure to attach some ribbons to it and let them stream down your back.”
“Okay.” After last night’s marathon study and freakout session, I have no energy to argue. I’ve just about convinced myself it was my sleep-deprived imagination that had dreamed up the slithery voice in the woods. And those yellow eyes? Probably an owl. The fluttering? Wings. Yep. All explained by rational logic. Mary would be proud.
“Help your sister with her boring hair.” Mom dismisses us with a flick of her wrist and turns to her latest piece—the Queen’s coronation gown. It’s white and lacy and full of frills. A huge collar of folded lace looks like a dinner plate. The dress itself is shaped like a giant bell jar.
Ug to the ly.
“Okay, Mom.” Mary smoothes the bodice of her lime-green dress and twirls the skirt. Her curls are fluffy and perfectly classic. Exactly what Mom wants.
Once my hair is sufficiently periodized and I’ve slipped into my fairy wings, we head to the faire. We flash our vendor IDs at the gate and begin the long afternoon of showing off Mom’s work to the crowds. Anyone who comments on our dresses gets a business card and a pitch. Heck, anyone who looks in our direction gets a business card and a pitch. Mom expects us to hand out at least a hundred cards a day. The one time we dumped a bunch in the trash, Mom caught us and made sure we distributed double the next day.
Food shoppes are clustered along the central street. The scent of roasting meat, sweet-potato fries, and barbecue mingles nicely with the scent of spicy incense. I double-check my coin purse—about the size of a wristlet—to make sure my ever-ready inhaler is tucked inside. As long as I don’t suck in the smoke directly, I’ll probably be okay.
The distant rumbling of drums down the street clashes with the subtle vibration of a harp. The harpist sits in the shade of a maple on a circular Oriental rug. Coming in the opposite direction, a flautist plays a light tune as he wanders. He wears an anklet of bells around each boot and they chime with every step.
A vendor at the Kings Nuts stand waves his arm. “Good morrow!”
His greeting earns a nod and bow from the flautist.
The vendor plucks a peanut from a bag and tosses it at the flautist, who lowers his flute, ducks under the arcing nut, and catches it in his mouth. The vendor yells, “Huzzah!”
Nearby actors and vendors reply with a chorus of “huzzah.” A couple dressed as pirates clank their flagons of ale. Faire patrons laugh and applaud.
The flautist resumes his playing and keeps wandering down the path.
“Here’s a good spot.” Mary directs us to a grassy patch at the corner of a crossroads. She twirls her skirts and fluffs her hair.
I smooth mine down, tucking a stray bit behind my ear. “’Tis a fine eve, is it not?” I use my diaphragm to project my voice. It makes me sound ten years older.
“Yea, dear sister.”
“Hast thou seen the Queen?”
“Nay, I hear our Queen ’tis preparing for her feast.”
A middle-aged woman with three little kids heads our way. She’s got a grin on her face. The kids hop around her like the dogs do to us at dinnertime. The boy—he’s gotta be around four—tugs on her shorts.
“Good even, Madame.” I curtsy.
“Such beautiful gowns,” she says, picking up her toddler. The little girl’s blonde curls end in fine wisps. Her bright blue eyes stare at me with wonder.
“Our mother is a fine seamstress. The best in the land.”
“Such a boastful maiden.” A rich, masculine voice sounds behind us.
I whirl to see William sauntering our way. An easy smile brings out his dimples. He’s dressed as a squire. A golden lion emblem covers the front of his blue and black tunic, showing that he’s in service to the Knight of Camelot. Knee-high boots and a sword affixed to a scabbard on his belt finish the costume. He won’t wear armor or chainmail until the joust.
“Thou’rt a fool, sir. Dost thou think me a liar?”
“Nay, my lady. ’Tis only a poor attempt to humor thee.” He bows. As he rises, he reaches behind his back and, with a quick twist of his arm, offers me a pink rose.
A squeal of glee tickles my throat. “Sir, such a beautiful gift.”
“For a beautiful lady.” He dips his head.
My fingers brush over his as I accept the gift. “I thank thee.” My face hurts from smiling so broadly.
“Wilst thou attend the joust?”
“Gladly, kind sir.” I curtsy and hold the flower to my nose. Its soft petals tickle. I inhale the sweet, raspberry-esque scent.
He wanders off, calling now and then to the crowd, garnering interest for the joust. It doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, so Mary and I have some time to kill.
“Let’s find some shade.” Mary hooks arms with me and we saunter to the forest, handing out Mom’s business cards along the way.
We dodge a pair of flower wenches selling roses, lilies, and carnations. One of them—dressed in a red corset and blue skirt with a ton of glitter on her ample chest—waves a flower in a man’s face. “Buy a flower for your fair maiden, fine gentle sir. Bosoms abound at the faire and a fine fellow such as thee can’t help but to spy on them. This colorful little blossom is forgiveness on a stick! Four dollars for forgiveness on a stick. A fine deal, indeed.”
The man chuckles and forks over his money. His lady—dressed in modern clothes—giggles and twirls the stem.
“Huzzah!” the flower wench calls.
It doesn’t take long for us to come across Zeena’s shoppe. The door is open and people are wandering in and out, pausing to comment on the gargoyle and troll statues littering the ground nearby. Some are grotesque, bodies and mouths tangled in painful positions, while others are fat with jovial grins widening their mouths.
“Didn’t see those before,” I comment.
“Must be new.” Mary tugs me along the path.
I resist. “Hang on. Let’s go inside.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? She might have other stuff.” And I can do a recon mission for Gamma. She hadn’t mentioned wanting me to, but she sure was curious about Zeena. Getting more info about her is the least I can do for screwing everything up by chanting without her permission. Plus, if I discover some tasty tidbit, maybe Gamma will let me keep the spellbook and teach me magick.
“What, you need more stardust?” She untangles her arm from mine.
“No.” I do a fish face at her and stomp inside. The skirt of my dress is so big that I have to angle in diagonally. Four other people are milling about, wandering along the walls, naming out various potions and fiddling with shiny crystals and polished trinkets.
Zeena sits in her chair, holding her plaque of Zodiac signs. Her dark eyes lock onto me instantly. Her smile is all yellow, crooked teeth. “Hello, deary,” she croons. Her tone is different from the other day. She must be fully in character.
“Good even, Madame.” I curtsy, staying in role.
“Such a pretty flower. A gift from a fine, strapping lad, I gather?” She rocks forward a couple times and stands, clutching the plaque to her chest.
“Yea, ’tis.”
“How special, young love. And what sign is he?” The old woman sets her collection on the chair and strokes the frame like a new mother touches the face of her baby.
“Why, praytell, dost thou inquire?”
The other patrons pause in their shopping to listen.
“Ah, ’tis this old witch’s fancy, is all.”
Mary comes up beside me. “Good even.”
Zeena nods he
r head. “Twins be a gift from the heavens, says I.”
A woman giggles. Glad she’s enjoying the show.
“Might I interest thee in a palm or tarot reading?” Zeena shuffles to the nearest shelf and collects a deck of cards.
“No thank you.” Mary’s quick to decline, not bothering to use the olde tyme lingo. She wraps a hand around my wrist and steps toward the door.
I twist out of her grasp. “Wait, sister. Wouldst thou not be curious to hear thy future?”
“Nay.” She shakes her head. “’Tis almost time for the joust.”
“It will only take but a minute.” Zeena drags her side table to the middle of the tiny shoppe. She shuffles the cards and slaps them on the tabletop. “Split the deck.”
I reach out with an unsteady hand and pick up half the cards. I set it next to the original pile.
Zeena taps the pile I split with her index finger three times. “Wouldst thou prefer to ask a question?” Her gaze strikes me. Like last time, it’s as if she can see through me and into my soul. A flash of yellow glints in her eyes.
I blink and the illusion is gone. Must’ve imagined it.
“A question about thy love, mayhap?”
My throat’s gone dry. I shake my head no.
“Let us try a simple reading then.” She flips three cards over, calling out each one as she goes. “The past, the present, the future. Thy past is represented by the Chariot. It means thou must take control of thy emotions, lest they race away from thee. Thy present is represented by the High Priestess. It means thou be in a time of discovery, pondering thy own self. Thou stand on the precipice of change and transformation. The High Priestess acts as a moderator, giving thee the ability to see past the veil of consciousness into the unconscious. She allows thee to recognize the power within. It’s already there, waiting, resting, until thee claims it. Thy future is represented by the Wheel of Fortune. It means change be headed thy way. The wheel turns, and so it shall be.” She waves a hand over the cards. “Thou hast a powerful and demanding path ahead. Methinks thee be strong enough, but meeting thy destiny will challenge thee.”
A heavy silence permeates the room. I scan the shoppe, catching the rapt expressions of the patrons. Tarot readings are mesmerizing, particularly when done by someone as commanding as Zeena. She’s got to be more than a simple old woman selling fake magick and jewelry.
Gooseflesh erupts on my arms as a shudder of ice slides down my spine. I’m holding my breath and I exhale slowly.
A trumpet’s call echoes in the forest and a collective cry followed by a round of applause sounds in the distance.
The joust is about to begin.
Chapter Eleven
At least a couple hundred people crowd the benches lining a sloped hill facing the arena. Others stand to the sides, clogging up the walking paths, and more people huddle along the forest edge, clinging to the shade. A lot of the patrons wave brightly colored flags, supporting their favorite knights.
The King and Queen are seated on a canopied pavilion at the top of the hill. To the King’s right is an honored guest (in this case, it’s a faire patron whose name was pulled out of a raffle) and to his left sits the Queen. She’s wearing the coronation dress Mom crafted last year. Its deep crimson pops against her pale skin. Ruby lipstick accents the gown. The Queen’s ladies-in-waiting crowd around her, serving tea and crumpets. One lady slowly waves a large feather fan in her direction. Standing off to the far right side of the King is the trumpeter. He generally kicks off the joust with a blaring toot and announces the end by repeating the song.
“We missed the King and Queen’s introductions,” Mary complains.
“We have two weeks to catch it. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t seen it before.”
“I know, but I like to see the Queen’s gowns.” She flops onto the edge of a bench and I gather my skirt to squeeze between her and a Rubenesque wench. Seriously, her boobs are bigger than most watermelons. And her corset is so tight it turns ’em into torpedoes.
Two groups of riders cluster at either end of the tilt. They’re dressed in armor and their horses’ barding shows their colors—yellow, green, blue, red, orange, white, purple, and black. An even number of Knights for an even number of jousts. Some horses are docile, standing with their necks extended and relaxed, while others pace impatiently, feeding off the energy around them. The mare from the other day is particularly agitated. She prances in place, tossing her head now and then. Her rider goes with it, letting her blow off some tense energy. The actors shout at one another and call each other names. Laughter and random shouts of “huzzah” bounce around the crowd.
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of William. He should be with the Blue Knight.
“There he is.” Mary points and I follow her finger to the barn’s entrance. William jogs out, carrying a bunch of narrow lances in his arms. Shequan is with him. He’s dressed in red and black, matching his father’s color. While the crest on William’s costume is a roaring lion, Shequan’s is a fire-breathing dragon.
“Cheer for thy Knight!” A young boy, dressed as a squire in training, waves a rainbow of flags in my face. “Pick your color. Fifty cents!” he shouts.
I flail my arms. “You don’t have to yell.”
Mary shakes her coin purse. Loose change jingles inside and the boy zeroes in on it. She pulls the mouth open and sticks her fingers inside, drawing out two quarters. “Blue, please.”
The mini-squire grins. “Thankee, m’lady!”
Mary hands me the flag and the boy moves down the line, pushing his felt flags on the crowd.
William and Shequan pass around the narrow lances, one for each Knight. The riders cut and parry with them, circling their horses around one another. The play grabs the audience’s attention and they hush.
The White Knight trots to the center of the arena, where I’d had my late-night study session the night before. His horse, a giant white Percheron, tosses its head. Two ponies ridden by colorful jesters trot behind him. One is dressed in yellow and red and the other in purple and orange. They flank him on either side and screech, “Huzzah!” while jutting their fists in the air.
The knight makes a big show of frowning at the wannabe jousters. He swings his arm to quiet them down. “Shush,” he hisses, loud enough for all of us to hear.
Laughter cascades through the crowd.
The knight clears his throat like a disapproving parent. “Welcome, patrons, to the joust!”
In unison, the ponies extend their left front feet and bend their right front feet. Dipping their noses to the dirt, they bow. The jesters slump forward and tumble over the ponies’ heads, landing in a heap. This gets the crowd roaring.
As the jesters dust themselves off and make a spectacle of mounting their short and stocky steeds, the knight gives the crowd a mini history lesson. “Here, you will behold the most popular sport of the Middle Ages.”
He gestures for the jesters to demonstrate. They spin their ponies in a circle and split off, yellow-red cantering to the left end of the tilt and purple-orange trotting to the right. They hold their reins high and flop their arms—the exact opposite of how it’s supposed to be done, but the comedy of it delights us.
“Jousting calls for the bravest of men—” The jesters “huzzah!” again and the Knight glares at them. “…to race at full gallop toward one another, holding twelve-foot long lances.”
A squire gives each jester a fat, black and white striped, three-foot long stick. Yellow-red fumbles his lance, while purple-orange inspects his to make sure it’s not warped or cracked.
“The goal is to knock the opponent off their steed.” The White Knight gallops his horse to the arena’s corner and halts. He spins his horse to face the tilt, extends his arm, and chops the air.
The jesters whoop! and charge at one another. Cheers volley through the crowd as yellow-red knocks purple-orange off his pony. Yellow-red takes a victory lap and promptly falls off his ride while coming to a stop.
&nb
sp; Addressing the crowd for a final time, the White Knight announces, “The winner takes the spoils and earns a dance with the Queen at the coronation ceremony on the last day of the faire!”
The audience applauds and so do I, caught up in the moment. I don’t give a crap about dancing with the Queen, and there’s a heck of a lot more to jousting than he said, but nobody wants to hear it. They just want to see the action.
The knights kick off the games by charging from one end of the arena to the other and back. Then they take turns racing down the tilt, trying to catch small rings with their narrow lances. The rings are hung from ten-foot high poles and are spaced fifteen feet apart. Some of the rings are as small as a couple inches across.
When the Blue Knight rides, William does his best to incite the audience. I whip my flag around and scream, grinning more for him than for his Knight. William salutes me and gives me a bow.
I scream even louder when his knight catches all the rings.
The Purple Knight prepares to go next. His squire holds his shield as he tests the weight of his lance.
I elbow Mary. “Oh, my gosh, it’s Evan!”
Evan rushes to the fence and shakes a fist in the air while displaying his knight’s shield. A white unicorn, rearing up on its hind legs, pops out against the plum background.
Mary grins and waves.
“Go Evan!” I call.
He turns his head in our direction and shouts, “Huzzah!”
Mary and I echo his cry. “Huzzah!”
“I didn’t know he was a squire.” Mary has to shout in my ear over the cheering of the audience.
“He’s so cute!” I holler back.
She futzes with a tangled curl, her gaze fixed on Evan. They’re such a perfect match for each other. No magick required. I dip my chin, buckling under the pressure of shame. I’d chanted to make William like me more. Here I am, accusing Mary of avoiding everything when it’s actually me who’s the coward.
After the ring catch, the knights retreat to their respective corners and pair off for the joust. First, the Yellow and Green Knights face off. The Green Knight’s bay gelding rears while the Yellow Knight’s Appaloosa paws at the dirt. Each warrior lowers his lance so it’s horizontal with the ground.
The Zodiac Collector Page 10
