Well Met(97)

“The last human chess match of the year? I wouldn’t miss it.” Emily’s devotion was adorable, especially since the chess match was as choreographed as the joust we’d just watched. Twice a day, Captain Blackthorne fought against Marcus MacGregor, a giant of a man wearing little more than a kilt and knee-high boots and carrying a massive sword. And twice a day, Captain Blackthorne lost said fight. But Emily still cheered him on, every time.

I shook my head. “I’ll walk around a bit more, if you’ll forgive me.” I was too restless. The last thing I wanted to do was stand still and watch a show I’d seen so many times I could probably perform it myself.

Emily peered at me with shrewd eyes. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, yes.” I waved her off. “I’d simply like to take in the scenery a little while longer.”

“Of course.” She squeezed my arm in goodbye as Simon doffed his hat and gave me a friendly bow. “Meet you at pub sing, then.”

I had to laugh at that. Emily never made it up front for the farewell show of the day. But hope sprang eternal.

Alone now, I stowed my old necklace in my belt pouch, tied the green silk cord around my neck, and set off down the lane again, my long skirts kicking up dust. I took the long way around the perimeter of the site where we held Faire every year.

It was midafternoon and the sun was still high in the sky, but it felt like the sun was setting on the summer. Many of the shows had finished, but I passed a children’s magic show that was halfway through its set, and I stopped to listen to the magician’s patter for a few moments. Multicolored banners hung from the trees, catching the sunlight as they blew gently in the breeze. A couple of kids ran past me, headed for the lemonade stand. The sound of a tin whistle floated from somewhere nearby.

I ducked inside a booth displaying hand-tooled leather items, inhaling the heady scent. I’d walked by this booth several times but had never explored its contents. Inside, the wire-mesh walls were lined with leather goods—vambraces and belt pouches, as well as modern-day accessories like belts and wallets.

“All handmade,” the attendant said, not bothering with a fake accent. She was my age, dressed in low-key peasant garb: a long, dark green skirt and a loose chemise, pulled in with a leather waist cincher.

“Do you make all this?” I touched a soft blue backpack made of buttery leather that hung on the end of one display.

“My husband and I do, yes.” She bent down to scoop up a small toddler in a long chemise. Even the kids dressed period here at Faire. She turned to greet another patron who had ventured out of the sun and into the cool shade of the booth. But before she walked away she looked over her shoulder. “Anything you like, let me know. You’ll get the Rennie discount: Thirty percent off.”

“Oh. Thanks.” A warm feeling went through me at her words. Not at the discount, but at what it represented. She considered me one of them: one of the crew. With as much effort as I put into this Faire each summer, I’d never considered myself on the same level as the performers and the vendors who came through every year. They had their own culture, almost their own language, and I was on the outside looking in. After today these woods would be empty, while all the acts and vendors around me moved on to the next Faire, and it was a sharp pain to the heart. Like life was moving on, and I was being left behind. Sometimes I wished I was the one packing up and moving on. Sometimes I was tired of standing still.

I blew out a long breath. The Renaissance faire had been my happy place since I was eighteen, and I didn’t like the way I was feeling now. Had I outgrown the Faire? Or had it outgrown me?

I took one more glance back at the blue backpack before making my way out of the booth. One necklace wasn’t enough retail therapy to keep this melancholy at bay. Thirty percent off . . . I was going to have to come back for that.

I continued to wander the lanes with no conscious destination in mind, when my feet brought me to the Marlowe Stage. The Dueling Kilts’ last set was about to begin. Perfect timing. I slipped into the back of the crowd, between a couple of costumed vendors, right as the guys took the stage.

The Dueling Kilts were a trio of brothers who played Irish standards, mixed with slightly naughty drinking songs, all on a hand drum, guitar, and fiddle. Their instruments were acoustic, their kilts hit just at the knee, and they were very, very easy on the eyes. My eyes strayed, as they usually did, to Dex MacLean. His red kilt was shot through with just enough dark green to keep him from looking like a stoplight, but it was still bright enough to draw attention. As though his powerful legs weren’t doing that well enough on their own.

His broad shoulders strained against his off-white linen shirt, and he stomped one booted foot in time with the music he played. He shook his long dark hair out of his eyes as he turned to his compatriots, and his smile made something thud in my chest. Dex MacLean had been my favorite part of Faire for the past two summers. The man had a body like a Hemsworth, and I’d explored about every inch of it last summer. Just like he’d explored mine. He’d been clear from the start, of course. No strings. Just sex. I was fine with that. I wasn’t looking to settle down anytime soon, and I didn’t like Dex for his conversation. Again, body like a Hemsworth. What kind of fool would I be to pass that up?

This summer had been different. He’d lost his phone over the winter, along with my number, so my initial texts had gone unanswered. We’d snatched a night or two together, and he’d still been fan-damn-tastic at it. But he hadn’t asked for my number again, and I didn’t volunteer it.