My Faire Lady (The Extra Series Book 6)

by Megan Walker

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  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Acknowledgments

  One

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  MY FAIRE LADY

  Copyright © 2019 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design

  Sconces and Castle by macrovector Adobe Stock

  Floral Headpiece by ssstocker Adobe Stock

  Stethoscope by branchecarica Adobe Stock

  Hanger by DeCe Adobe Stock

  Corset and Shirt by Melissa Williams Design

  Published by Garden Ninja Books

  ExtraSeriesBooks.com

  First Edition: December 2019

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Misty Kelm,

  who wanted a Will point of view

  One

  Gabby

  The first day of a new job has always been super stressful to me. I suppose this is probably one of those eternal truths that applies to everyone, but I think I’ve broken the bell curve with how many first days of a new job I’ve had to endure—and how many of those turned out to coincide with the last day of a new job.

  I may have a bit of a complex about it.

  But the past three years have been different. I have a career I love. I have a boyfriend I love even more. I have a punch card at the closest sub sandwich place that is only one punch away from a free sandwich. (Okay, that last one doesn’t apply as much, but I’m happy about it.)

  So a new job—a side gig to bring in a little extra income for rising rent and twice-a-week Fong’s delivery—shouldn’t be a problem. I can handle this.

  If I can just find which person running around dressed like they came from the set of Game of Thrones is my boss.

  “Excuse me,” I say to a heavyset woman in a bright red corset and full black skirt, who is carrying an armful of what looks like leather . . . harnesses? For horses? For the Renaissance faire nightclub after-party? Who knows.

  She blinks at me, looking harried. Everyone hustling around looks a bit harried, which I guess makes sense. It’s opening day of the Glendale Renaissance Faire, and only an hour before the gates officially open to ticketed customers.

  “Do you know where I can find Maggie Hanson? I’m supposed to check in with her, but I never heard where, and—”

  “I’m sorry, love,” the woman says, shaking her head. “I’m a first-year vendor. I don’t know where she’d be.”

  I sigh. “Okay, thanks for—”

  But the woman has already bustled off, the buckles in the stack of harness things—that she’s selling, apparently?—clinking as she scurries.

  I look around. I’m in an open area just inside the entrance, which is made to look like a castle wall with turrets on either side. There’s a building to my right with festival t-shirts and oversized beer tankards for sale. In front of that is a small booth marked “Information,” which seems the logical place to start, but no one is there. To my left is a big building that connects to the entrance wall, and also looks like it’s supposed to be part of a castle. I see the top of what looks like another turret jutting up in the distance on the other side of the faire. Is there more than one castle here? This place is huge and sprawling, and it’s hard to tell.

  For all that I grew up not terribly far from here, and this faire has been in existence quite likely my whole life, I’ve never actually been to a Renaissance faire. My parents were not Faire People. Or Disneyland People, for that matter. They were (and are, even in depleted financial circumstances) Brunch at the Country Club People.

  It meant my siblings and I grew up in a huge house and had no lack of private tutors—or my siblings didn’t, since they were the ones my parents felt most inclined to encourage in their pursuits—but clearly we missed out on a few things.

  A louder clinking noise, more like a metallic thunk, catches my attention. I turn to see a knight in shining armor—literally, because the sunlight is gleaming from his breastplate—striding confidently (if not quickly) by.

  “Excuse me,” I say. Maybe the metal helmet isn’t great for hearing, because he keeps walking. “Hey! Knight guy!”

  If I didn’t already guess the moment it left my mouth that this is not the proper way to address a knight, the expression on his face would be confirmation enough.

  “Yes, my lady?” His tone is polite, but in a long-suffering kind of way.

  I’m a bit charmed by being called “my lady.” And yeah, maybe by being called “my lady” by a handsome knight who looks like Channing Tatum playing Sir Lancelot.

  I may have a gorgeous boyfriend I’m crazy in love with, but I’m still a woman, for god’s sake.

  “I’m looking for Maggie Hanson,” I say. “I’m starting today as the faire nurse, and I need to—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he says, his blue eyes cold. “I haven’t seen her. Good day.”

  And then he bows, like this ridiculous courtly bow, and thunks off again without another word. So much for chivalry. I can’t help but think the real Channing Tatum would have been a lot more helpful.

  “I know where she is,” a woman’s voice says from behind me, and I turn to see a girl about my age, with orange-red hair pinned up on her head in elaborate winding braids. She has a spray of freckles across her face and is wearing a black corset over a blousy white top and muted brown skirt. I know that once the faire opens to customers, I won’t be the only person wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but right now I definitely feel underdressed.

  “Really?” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t mind Sir Stick-Up-His-Ass,” she says. “He’s like that with everyone, like we’re all back in high school and he’s the knights’ star quarterback. Bunch of meathead jocks, the lot of them.” But she looks a little fond as she watches him walk away.

  “Um, okay.”

  “I’m Delia.” She offers her hand and a warm smile, which I return. “So you’re the nurse this year? I thought Sheena was doing it again.”

  Sheena is a nurse who works with me at the hospital, and the reason I even knew about this job to begin with. “She was, but had to go back to Calgary for a couple weeks for a family emergency,” I say. What I don’t say is that judging by a website sh
e left open on the office computer, I think the “family emergency” is about expanding her Etsy-based business of making felt hats for hamsters to a string of Canadian pet-product trade shows. “But she knew I could use a little extra cash, so she referred me to Maggie.”

  Delia’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “You mean you’re actually making real-life money here?”

  I laugh. I am, which is part of what makes the job worth doing. “As opposed to what, Monopoly money?”

  “Not far off. The pay’s pretty pathetic for most jobs here, but if you want to work the Ren faire circuit, you’ve got to pay your dues.” She gestures at herself. “Second-year local Beer Wench today, possible full-fledged traveling troupe member ten years from now.”

  I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic with that timeline or not, so I just smile and act like I get it. I follow Delia as she walks towards a large pavilion with two throne-looking chairs that a woman is draping with velvety fabric, while a man in a long tunic is messing with some floral garlands. Off to the side, a tall, thin woman in a regal-looking blue and gold gown is surveying the scene and frowning.

  “That’s Mama Mags,” Delia says, pointing at the frowning woman.

  “Mama Mags?”

  “She keeps things running, and keeps everyone in line.” Delia smiles. “As well as she can, I suppose. Anyway, she’s a bit of a hard-ass, but she’s actually pretty sweet once you get to know her. She’ll get you set up at the first aid station.”

  “Thank you,” I say with real feeling. I’m not sure how much longer I could have wandered around feeling like some invisible time traveler before I gave up and went home.

  Okay, maybe I’m even more stressed about this first day than I let myself believe.

  “No problem!” Delia says. “And when you need a break from skinned knees and archery wounds, come over to the Prancing Pig Pub and I’ll get you a well-deserved tankard.” She grins and walks off.

  Did she say archery wounds?

  I shake my head and then draw in a breath, readying myself to meet my employer. Reminding myself again that I am not the girl I was three years ago. I have skills now, and they need them here. And they sure as hell don’t have time to find someone else in the next half-hour.

  I take out my cell phone and look at the message Will sent. You got this, Gabby. Love you. Followed by a heart and a top hat emoji.

  I smile again. He’s right. I’ve got this.

  “Ms. Hansen?” I say, as I approach the woman Delia pointed out. I don’t call her “Mama Mags”—that feels like something one has to earn the right to call someone.

  The woman in the regal gown turns toward me, still frowning. She’s an older woman, maybe mid-fifties, with a stance equally as regal as her gown, her gray-streaked dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. The front of her full skirt is this gorgeous stitched-gold pattern that catches the sunlight.

  Now I feel really underdressed. And maybe like I’m about to have my knuckles slapped with a ruler.

  “Yes?” she says, a little imperiously.

  “I’m Gabby Mays, the nurse. We talked on the phone the other day?” That last part becomes a question, because now I’m wondering if it’s against the rules to mention modern technology. Should I have said something about speaking via carrier pigeon?

  “Yes, of course,” she says, and shakes my hand briskly. It definitely sounds like the same woman—terse and efficient. “Follow me.” Then, like a true courtly lady, she practically glides across the patchy grass and dirt paths, and I follow behind, feeling far less graceful.

  We go back toward the entrance and I find a small shack tucked away next to the side of the “castle”—which I see now has a sign that says “King’s Feast Hall.” The small shack, though, has a much smaller sign that reads “Infirmary.”

  She pushes open the door and flicks on a light switch (which, good, I was hoping I wouldn’t be required to treat patients by candlelight.) The room is small, probably about the size of one of our typical rooms at the hospital. There’s a wooden cabinet and small table against one wall, two stools in the corner, and a narrow cot with a thin mattress against the other.

  And that’s pretty much it.

  Maggie strides over to the opposite wall and pushes back some curtains to let in light and breeze through an open window, which is nice, though the sunlight only serves to emphasize the dust motes in the air. I cough.

  Maggie narrows her dark eyes like she suspects I’m judging her infirmary. Which I am, but trying not to show it.

  Then she reaches into the gorgeously embroidered pouch hanging from her belt and pulls out a disappointingly modern-looking key ring. It’s the kind used by every school janitor in the history of ever, including, apparently, those of the medieval variety. She finds a key and removes it, handing it to me. “This is for the medicine cabinet. As you can imagine, there’s not much in the way of actual medicine in there, for liability reasons. But you’ll find Neosporin, bandages, some Tylenol . . . basic things.”

  I nod. I figured as much. I’m pretty much the school nurse of the Ren faire. Which doesn’t sound like it’ll be much help if Delia was being serious about the archery wounds thing. But probably she wasn’t. Probably.

  “I’m guessing the bulk of what I’ll be doing is treating scrapes, giving water to people who’ve gotten dehydrated, that kind of thing?” I ask. I notice there’s a flat of water bottles under the cot.

  Maggie nods. “Correct. Occasionally people pass out from the heat, and if the workers can’t lift them—if they are some of our, say, larger patrons—we’ll come get you.”

  I blink. “And I’m supposed to lift them?”

  “You’re supposed to keep them alive until the ambulance comes,” she says dryly.

  Of course. I suppress a cringe.

  “You will not refer to yourself to the patrons as a nurse,” Maggie continues, straightening out the blanket on the cot, brushing it smooth like it’s one of those fancy department store bed displays and not a leftover army cot that probably came from the set of M.A.S.H. “Your title is Healer Wench.”

  I’m glad she’s facing away from me so she doesn’t see the way my nose instinctively wrinkles. Healer Wench? I mean, apparently wench is a term embraced by women here—Delia didn’t seem to mind being a “Beer Wench”—but I don’t love all the work I’ve put into nursing reduced to something that sounds like I brew up potions made with pigs’ feet and energy crystals.

  Though I suppose I’m at a Renaissance faire, so maybe that’s the point.

  “Do I need to speak in a snooty British accent or anything?” I ask. “You know, for when I tell them I’m going to apply leeches and check their humors?” I’m mostly joking about this—mostly—but Maggie does not seem amused.

  “Never tell them you’re applying leeches,” she says, sternly enough that I can only assume this has happened before to disastrous results. “For liability reasons, you must be absolutely accurate in reference to any treatment you’re providing.” She pauses. “And no need for an accent. Though you should call the patrons ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady,’ the children ‘young sir’ or ‘young miss,’ that sort of thing. Can you handle that?”

  My palms feel sweaty. I would absolutely think I could handle that, but the way she’s eyeing me is bringing back flashes of every former employer who fired me for something equally small and stupid. “Yes, of course. Definitely.” I swallow, knowing I should just leave it there, but I can’t help myself. “I mean, if I forget once and call someone, you know, ‘ma’am’ instead, is that a fireable offense?”

  Maggie stares at me for a long, long, deeply uncomfortable moment. “You will get fired if someone is hurt and you’re off having sex with a knight. You won’t be doing that, will you?”

  She says this with such accusation that I have the feeling this is something they’ve dealt with more often than malpractice
suits for medieval leech treatments.

  “No!” I say quickly. “I have a boyfriend! A really cute boyfriend!”

  I’m not sure why I add this last part. I mean, it’s true, and I’m proud of it, but—

  She still just stares at me, her eyes narrowed.

  “He’s real,” I say, feeling myself flush. “Here, let me show you a picture.” I take out my phone, but Maggie shakes her head.

  “No need for pictorial evidence,” she says. “I believe you.”

  I may be imagining it, but I think I detect a hint of a smile before her expression becomes flat and dour again. “Do you have any other questions?” she asks.

  I look around the infirmary and chew my lip. I have about a hundred, most of which are some version of “why am I doing this” or “should I just leave now and save myself more humiliation?”

  But that was Gabby of years ago. Gabby of now can totally handle the first day of a job—after all, she killed it at her first day at the hospital (okay, maybe “killed it” isn’t the best expression to use for one’s first official day as a nurse—everyone under my care did manage to survive.)

  Nurse Gabby can totally handle whatever minor issues a two-week gig at a Renaissance faire will throw at her.

  I clear my throat. “No, I think that covers it.”

  Maggie nods, clearly approving of not needing to deal with me further. “Wonderful. Now you just need to pick up your costume.”

  “My costume?” I have a moment of hope that maybe Healer Wenches get to wear something gorgeous and fancy like her gown. Although I wonder how hot that must get, all those layers in the southern California summer, with practically no ventilation in here, and—

  “Correct. You will wear a corset and skirt, which you can acquire at the costume rental shop. They have some set aside for employees in the back.”

  A corset? I suppose I should have guessed; I haven’t seen any woman here wearing anything that didn’t look like it was squeezing her ribcage shut in an attempt to smother her with her own boobs. No one except Mama Mags, that is.

  For two weeks?