Well Met(9)

Jeez. This whole thing took a quick left turn into culty. I’d been planning to coast through this: wear a cute costume and hang out in a bar so Caitlin could participate. I hadn’t intended to spend the next few months in some kind of live-action method-acting exercise. I stifled a sigh and looked down at the paper in my hands.

Thankfully, Simon didn’t make anyone stand in the middle. Instead, we went around the circle, where we each introduced ourselves by our real name as well as our chosen Faire name. The point of the exercise was probably for everyone to start to get to know each other. Instead, my blood pressure rose with every new voice that spoke, as my turn to talk inched closer and closer and I had no idea who my character was besides someone who served beer. The paper crumpled in my hand as I focused on Caitlin across the circle from me. She giggled at something one of her friends said, and seeing her that relaxed made something inside me relax too. I could do this.

Next to me on my right, Stacey spoke up. “Hey, everyone! I’m Stacey Lindholm, and this is my . . . oh, God, eighth year doing the Faire. Is that right? Can that be right?” She moaned dramatically. “Anyway, I started when I was in high school, as a singer, but now that I’m an adult—” A snort came from a few people down to my left, and Stacey tsked in that direction. “Shut up, Mitch. Now that I’m an adult, or once I hit twenty-one anyway, I moved over to being a wench. There are two of us this year.” She nudged me with her shoulder, and oh, shit, it was my turn.

But she wasn’t done yet. Simon cleared his throat. “I assume you’re keeping the same name?”

“Oh! Yes. Of course.” Suddenly Stacey slipped into a pretty good English accent and she drew herself up into a straighter posture. Before my eyes, she became a completely different person. “If you want to find me in the tavern, ask for Beatrice. That’ll be me.”

Would I need to have an English accent too? But I didn’t have time to worry about that, because it was my turn to speak.

“Hi!” I tried to smile, look friendly, and wave all at the same time. My smile came out as a kind of nervous exhale, probably showing too many teeth, and my wave looked like a dorky muscle spasm. “I’m Emily. Emily Parker. I’m new in town, so I’ve never done this before.”

“Don’t worry, Park. We’ll be gentle.” Mitch laughed at his own joke, and I snickered a little too, but my laugh was shut down by a forbidding-looking Simon.

“As Beatrice said, you’re a wench this year as well, right?” His question prodded me along, and I got the message. Stay on topic. I’d already pissed him off with the Shakespeare thing; I needed to behave.

“Right. Sorry. Yes. Yes, I am a wench with Stacey.”

“Beatrice.” He repeated the name, as though I were slow in understanding, and good Lord, I had no idea plain brown eyes could look like lasers. But Simon’s stare was about to burn a hole in my forehead.

“Yes,” I said. “Beatrice. Sorry. Again.” What was with this guy?

“And your name?”

“Emily.”

He sighed. “Yes. But your Faire name.”

“Oh . . . It’s . . .” I smoothed out the wrinkled paper in my hands, stalling for time. “I guess Shakespeare’s out, huh?” I chanced a look up at him, but the thunder in his expression told me that my jokes weren’t welcome here. “Fine, okay. I’ll be . . . ummm . . .” My eyes landed on a name. Easy. “Emma.”

“Emma.” His voice was flat.

“It’s period.” I pointed at the paper. “See, right there on the list. And I’ll remember to answer to it.”

Another short sigh. “Glad to see you’re putting a lot of thought into this.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but Simon turned to the teenager immediately to my left and made clear I had ceased to exist to him.

I leaned back on my hands and sighed. Dick.

Stacey nudged me. “Don’t worry about him,” she whispered. “Your name is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Don’t let him bother you.”

I blew out a breath. “I’ll try.” I turned my attention back to the circle, where Mitch was up next.

“Mitch Malone.” His voice exuded confidence, and why not? Look at the guy. Someone like that could be conceited about himself, and for all I knew he was. But the way he smiled, not only at me but at the kids in the circle, told me there was more to him than how much he could deadlift. “And I’ve been doing Faire for, what, about as long as you, Simon, right?”

Simon nodded. “You started the year after me. So the second year of Faire.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Your big brother bugged me for, like, half of senior year in high school to join up. Said he needed more big strong guys, and not scrawny little guys like you.”

“I was not scrawny.” Simon huffed, but a smile played around his mouth too. This was obviously an old, toothless argument.

Mitch waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. ‘Scrawny’ is a relative term, right?” I wasn’t sure if he consciously flexed his pecs at that point or what, but there was definite movement under his tight gray T-shirt, and it was a beautiful thing to watch.

Simon sighed again, but unlike when he expressed his disapproval of me, this sigh came out as more of a laugh. “Okay, whatever. I assume you’re bringing the kilt again this year, right?”