Well Met(11)

Well, mostly. There was one big exception. It seemed like every time Stacey said something to make me laugh a little too loudly, Simon noticed and shot a glare my way. Having too much fun must have been against his rules. He also noticed those couple of times I paid more attention to my phone than a history discussion. That usually earned me another glare. I did my best to not shrink under his gaze, reminding myself that I was a volunteer and these people were lucky to have me.

After rehearsals we went home, and at night, we ordered pizza and practiced our accents.

Okay, we watched Harry Potter movies. And Jane Austen adaptations. And more Harry Potter movies. And talked to each other with exaggerated English accents. But we got better at it as time went on. April even joined us, even though she had no accent to work on. So of course she picked it up faster than we did.

One night, after we’d watched Shakespeare in Love, I noticed Caitlin watching the closing credits with a thoughtful look on her face.

“We just studied Romeo and Juliet in school this year,” she said. “Ms. Barnes didn’t say anything about any of that stuff happening when Shakespeare wrote it.”

I fought against a smile and lost. “That’s because it didn’t. Dramatic license, kiddo.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She looked at the screen again. “So what’s the play he’s writing at the end?”

“Twelfth Night. Have you read that yet? They don’t teach it in high school as much.” She shook her head. “You might like it,” I said. “Mistaken identity; everyone falls in love with everyone else. It’s pretty fun.” I thought for a moment. “We can’t talk about it at Faire, though. For one thing, I don’t think tavern wenches can read. For another, isn’t it 1601 at Faire? It was written around 1601 or 1602.” We couldn’t risk anachronism, even if it was only a few months’ overlap. Simon would probably give me detention.

Between accents and history lessons, time passed in strange ways over the next few weeks. I stopped paying attention to the Monday-through-Friday of things, since school let out in early June and for the first time in ages I didn’t have an actual job. Taking care of April and running her house—without making it too obvious that I was doing all the things she couldn’t—was a job in and of itself. With Faire obligations on top of everything else, I had plenty on my plate.

Instead, we marked the passage of time by April’s appointments. Follow-up appointments gave way to physical therapy sessions, all marked on my calendar app. After dropping her off for her first physical therapy appointment in a small building downtown, I wandered the block in search of a cup of coffee. I found something better: a bookstore called Read It & Weep.

A bell chimed as I pushed the door open, and as soon as I stepped inside I felt like I’d come home. I hadn’t had a lot of time for reading in the past two or three years, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. The smell of the books, the promise in the shelves of printed pages . . . I loved stories, and always had.

I took my time exploring the shop. There was a section up front with new titles, giving way to shelves and shelves lined with used books. It didn’t take long for me to find a used copy of Twelfth Night in the classics section, and I snagged it to read with Caitlin. When I reached the back I discovered the world’s smallest coffee bar: basically an espresso machine, a coffeepot, and a few platters of pastries wrapped in plastic. The owner met me behind the counter and I wasted no time in ordering a latte from her.

“There you are, Emma.” She slid the coffee cup across the counter in my direction with a smile.

I shook my head. “Emily. My name’s . . .” Then I took a good look at her for the first time. I was an idiot. I’d just bought a coffee from Chris Donovan, our Faire’s Queen, and I hadn’t even noticed. In my defense, though, it wasn’t like I talked to her much during rehearsal. She was one of the ones in charge, so something always had her attention. Also, she looked different in this light, not to mention more professional; here she wore her blond-white hair up in a twist and had on a twinset and pearls instead of a faded T-shirt.

I smiled as I took the coffee. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” I bobbed a quick curtsy, which made her laugh.

“I’m just Chris here.” She took my money and made change from a small cashbox under the counter. “You’re April’s sister, right? How are you enjoying Faire so far?”

“It’s . . .” I dropped the change into the tip jar while I struggled with this question. The people who were into it were very into it, I’d noticed, and I didn’t want to insult her by telling her that deep down, I still thought it was a little silly. “It’s interesting. Just seems a little intense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s a fund-raiser, right? But we’re spending a lot of time getting accents right, learning history . . . are people going to care that much?” I held my breath, waiting for her to frown and tell me I didn’t understand. She wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Instead she considered my question. “Short answer? Not really. But at the same time, yes. It’s a fund-raiser, sure, but it’s grown over the years into a pretty big event. We have talent coming from all over the country to perform. It’s not one of the big Faires by any means—we certainly have nothing on the Maryland Renaissance Festival.”