Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(25)

Then Simon swings over to my side, and the fair itself stretches before us.

“What in the curs-ed fuck?” I say.

Bunce and Snow are similarly gobsmacked.

The festival is set up like a tiny village, with hastily built shacks and hand-painted hanging signs. Nearly everyone is dressed like—Crowley, I don’t know. It’s like Monty Python and the Holy Grail crossed with The Princess Bride crossed with Peter Pan.…

Crossed with some film where all the women wear push-up bras and extremely low-cut dresses. Every other woman here, maid or matron, is laced into a ridiculously tight bodice and spilling out the top. I’ve never seen so much and so many breasts in my life—and we’re only five feet into the festival.

“Crikey,” Simon says.

A nearly topless woman catches his eye and wheels around him. “Good morrow, my lord.”

I wave her away—“Right, right, move along.”

“Fare-thee-well!” she calls to Simon.

“What on earth is the theme?” Bunce has her hands on her hips, properly puzzling it out.

“The Renaissance?” Simon suggests.

“That’s Galileo and da Vinci,” she says. “Not…”

Frodo Baggins waddles by.

“Look,” Simon says, “turkey legs!”

I half expect to see someone wearing turkey legs, but it’s another shack with a large drumstick-shaped sign hanging over the window—SMOKED FOWL.

Bunce and I follow Simon to the shack. “It’s so strange,” he says, grinning. “Nobody’s looking at me.”

Two children have stopped in their tracks to stare at him. Their mother is taking a mobile-phone photo.

“Everyone is looking at you,” I say.

“Yeah, but not like it’s any big deal. They think it’s a costume.” He spreads his wings out wide. Everyone in the turkey-leg line says, “Ohhhh.” A few more people point their phones at him.

Bunce covers her eyes. “My mum’s gonna kill me.”

There’s another bosomy woman behind the cash register. “Well met, my lord, what dost thou require this bonny afternoon?”

“Uh, yeah,” Simon says. “I’ll have a turkey leg and”—he looks at the menu—“a tankard of ale.”

“I’ll be needing to see your papers, young master.”

“My papers?”

Bunce speaks up. “Our passports?”

The serving wench leans forward, practically depositing her breasts in Simon’s arms. “Ye look a little green around the ears, I hazard.”

“Crowley, Snow,” I say. “She sounds like Ebb.”

“I’m twenty,” Simon tells her. “It’s fine.”

“I admire thine accent and thine courage, lad, but I must obey the king’s law. Mayhap thou wouldst enjoy a tankard of Coca-Cola instead?”

“Sure…” Simon says.

“Really though,” the woman whispers. “Great accents.”

We get our food and walk away from the shack right into a parade. “Hear ye, hear ye!” a man in homemade chain mail is calling. “Make way for the queen!” I start to bow my head, and I notice Bunce begin to curtsy (which is absurd on both our parts, but there you are). A horse, carrying a woman dressed as Elizabeth I, trots by.

“Pardon me, chap.” Another woman, dressed as Sherlock, pushes past us.

Bunce waves her turkey leg at the whole preposterous scene. “Is the theme British?” she asks, suddenly indignant. “Is it just weird and British?”

“If so, Bunce, you’ve got the best costume.”

“But there are also Vikings,” Simon says. “And people dressed up like big furry animals.”

“And handsome young men with dragon wings,” I add, earning another rare smile from him.

“That shop over there sells magic wands!” Penny says. “It’s like they’re mocking us, specifically.”

“They’re just having fun,” Simon says. “Let’s find a table.”

“The young master hath a fine idea,” I say. “He is fair in aspect and sharp in mind.”

“How’d you do that?” Simon asks. “Did you flip a switch?”

“I’m just pretending to be in a Shakespeare play. Lay on, my boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” he says, laughing, but also laying on.

“‘He’s gone,’” I lament. “‘I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe him.’”

“Othello,” Bunce says. “Very nice, Basilton.”

I twirl my turkey leg and bow.

“You’re having fun,” Simon accuses.

“Fie!”





21





SIMON


Renaissance Faires are brilliant.

I had a turkey leg and a big sticky Coke and then something called funnel cake, which is just a mess of fried dough with powdered sugar, and is A-plus-plus in my book. The woman who sold it to me gave me free chocolate sauce. “Angels get upgrades,” she said.

Everyone here is so friendly. I don’t know if that’s a Nebraska thing or just a part of their Olde English act.