Finally Rafi got a shoulder under Ollie’s torso, flipped him over, and slammed him down, with more flourish than force—only to realize he’d misjudged their distance from the edge. With a yelp, Ollie rolled off the stage.
And landed in the arms of bodyguard Lyle.
Rafi was less lucky. A hopeless and much-too-late attempt to pull back the throw cost him his balance, and he tumbled after Ollie, nearly landing on top of him.
After a dazed, pinwheeling moment, Rafi became aware that he was on his back on the ground, with half a dozen wide-eyed faces above him.
“Move,” came Julian’s voice, and a couple of those faces abruptly vanished, shoved away so Julian could kneel down beside him. “Rafi? Can you hear me? Don’t get up! Can you—I said don’t get up!”
“I’m fine,” Rafi groaned, sitting up with a hand to his head. Julian’s hands were on him, poking and prodding for injuries. That was nice.
“You’re an idiot,” Julian said.
“Yeah. Where’s Ollie, he okay?”
“I’m good,” Ollie said from somewhere.
One of the lady Troubadours crouched on the edge of the stage. “We’ve called for a medic. Ollie, can you climb back up here for just a sec and we’ll wind down the show?”
“Did you hit your head?” Julian was saying. “You landed on your arm, can you move this arm?”
“Julian, I am fine.” Rafi propped himself against the side of the stage, where the Troubadours were bowing and collecting applause. He nestled a hand against the side of Julian’s pale, frowning face. “I had the breath knocked out of me, that’s all. I’m okay.”
“Bumbles bounce,” Christian said from behind Julian; Rafi looked up to see Amber with a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if she’d had to hold him back. She was clenching his sleeve with white knuckles.
“Don’t do that kind of thing, please, Rafi,” Amber said. “I don’t fancy being out of a job.”
“Job! Job?” Rafi said, pointing at Christian. The second time, he pronounced it with a long O, the name instead of the noun. “Jeremiah? Rudolph? Eugene!”
“No!”
Rafi huffed. “Well, you have to give me this one—I’ve defeated a giant!”
“I guess,” Christian said, looking disgruntled.
“One down, two to go!”
* * * *
The audience was filtering out, now; some of the last to leave were the little gaggle of Distant Kingdom fans, one of whom still had a camera going. Rafi shooed them off with a wave and a reassuring murmur.
The medic—a man in an unsettling Plague Doctor costume, who had to take off a long-beaked mask in order to examine Rafi’s injuries—scolded Ollie and Rafi roundly for doing unchoreographed combat on an unpadded stage.
“It’s lucky for you and for the Faire’s legal team,” he said, with a glower at Ollie, “that you’ve come out of this with only a goose-egg and some bruises, Mr. Reyes.”
“That and the blow to my pride,” Rafi said, “since it’s sure to be all over the internet by nightfall.”
“You deserve it,” Julian said, and pressed the medic’s ice pack gently to the side of Rafi’s head. Rafi thought of the cacti on the windowsill, Julian decorating with prickles, and smiled.
“We should get out of these folks’ hair and let them prepare for their next show,” Rafi said. “Other than the danger to my life, by the way, I really enjoyed it.”
Ollie grinned. “Yeah? Really?”
“Really! Your whole troupe is good, but,” he glanced around and leaned closer, “you’re the best of the bunch.”
Ollie’s smile went wry. “Too bad Distant Kingdom isn’t hiring, huh?”
“Well, now,” Rafi said thoughtfully, “let me get back to you on that.”
* * * *
Lyle ordered an Uber for himself and Christian, who had to leave early for his “important dinner thing” with Uncle Eddie. Laden with purchases and sporting various degrees of sunburn, they all waited outside the Faire’s gates for the car to arrive.
“I think I’m gonna head out with you guys, if that’s okay,” Amber said. “I’ve got a few errands to run, and that way I don’t get stuck as a third wheel on the ‘Jurafi’ love-bicycle.” She grinned at Rafi, who pretended to be surprised by the discovery of his own middle finger in his pocket—but the thought of getting some alone time with Julian was not unwelcome.
“I guess that means the time has come for me to cough up Rafael’s bride-price,” Julian said.
“It sure has, pretty boy. What did you get me?”
“Stay here.” He dashed off back into the Faire—flashing his hand-stamp at the entrance—before Rafi could protest.
“You realize you don’t actually get a vote in who I date, Amber,” Rafi said.
“Oh, trust me, your life would be different if I did.”
“I do, though,” Christian piped up. “And you’ve failed your tasks.”
“Hey, I vanquished a giant! You saw!”
“Yeah, yeah, I give you that one,” Christian said. “But you haven’t squeezed blood from a stone, and you haven’t guessed my middle name.”
Rafi sighed and tapped his chin. “Sherlock?”
“Nope.”
“Hussein.”
“What?”
“Batman.”
“I wish.”
“I bet you do. Because I know the actual answer.” Smiling, Rafi stepped closer, bending to put their faces on a level. “Your middle name, Christian, is…nothing. You don’t have one.”
Christian scowled. “Julian told you!”
“No, he didn’t. I figured it out.”
“How?”
“You said it was your father’s name, so I tried to google it—you said I could!—but while I ran across a couple of references to your birth mother, there was never any mention of a father.” Rafi dropped his smugness as Christian suddenly stopped meeting his eyes. “You don’t have any middle name, and you said it was your father’s because he doesn’t have a name either. You don’t know who he is.”
Christian didn’t answer.
Lyle, on the phone giving directions to the Uber driver, paused to raise an eyebrow at Christian. “You’re the one who brought it up, kiddo. Don’t be a sore loser.”
Christian rolled his eyes. “It’s just a dumb family tradition. Like, for all the sons to have their dad’s name as their middle name. She could have just given me something else instead of leaving it blank.”
Amber smacked a fist into the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, that means you can change it to whatever you want when you’re eighteen. You could be, legally, Christian Tiger Petrie.”
“Or Megatron.”
“Or Pinkie Pie,” Lyle said, and hooted with laughter as Christian chased him, trying to stomp his feet.
“Um,” Amber said, pointing behind them at the Faire’s entryway. “Holy cow.”
“A close relative, anyway,” Rafi said as Julian emerged, towing the lead-line of a camel.
“I think, my lady,” Julian said, sweeping his hat off as he bowed, “that this must meet thy demand of ‘most costly article in all the Faire.’”
Amber was staring. “You bought…the camel.”
“And thus must I eat only noodles this coming fortnight or more.” Julian pushed the camel’s head away as it tried to eat the feather on his hat. “But ‘twill be worth every penny to please thee, madam, and win thine approval of my suit.”
“What am I going to do with a camel?”
“That is, as they say, thine own problem.”
Amber cracked then, laughing until she had to bend over. “You bought me a camel. In exchange for Rafi.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure this is exactly a compliment,” Rafi said.
Julian looked him up and down. “Oh, it is.”
“If you don’t want the camel, Amber, I’ll take him,” Christian said, petting the animal’s shoulder.
Lyle snorted. “I would pay to see Uncle Eddie’s face…”
&
nbsp; “You win,” Amber gasped, wiping tears. “You win. You can have Rafi.”
“On the off chance,” Julian said, “that my lady does not have room for the camel at her home, she may find this an acceptable substitute.” The prop sword at his belt, Rafi realized, had been joined by a second sheath, and he pulled from it a long, burnished, definitely-not-a-prop length of steel.
“Okay, now we’re talking,” Amber said, taking the sword with a gleam of avarice in her eyes. “I definitely have room for this at home.”
Rafi threw up his hands. “What is it with lesbians and swords?”
“How else am I supposed to fight a dragon and win me a princess, huh?”
The sword, then, was declared an acceptable bride-price, and the camel was returned to his amused handler, hovering near the entrance. Julian, after slipping her some cash, rejoined them just as the Uber pulled up.
“Hey, wait, Rafi still has one task to finish,” Christian said, bouncing out of the car that he’d half-entered.
“Oh, right, blood from a stone,” Rafi said. “You know what, I can’t get blood from a stone. I can do you one better, though. I can get a laugh out of Julian Gault.”
Christian narrowed his eyes. So did Julian.
“A real one, not some disdainful chuckle,” Rafi promised. “A big, loud, full-body laugh.”
“Go for it,” Christian said, crossing his arms.
Rafi turned to Julian, who backed away a step, his expression deeply suspicious. Rafi eased up to him, all charm and innocence, holding his gaze, until they were almost touching noses.
“Julian, there’s something I want to tell you,” he said—and darted forward to blow a huge blattering raspberry into the crook of Julian’s neck.
Julian shrieked—and shrieked again, and cursed, and finally laughed, to Rafi’s relief, almost child-like laughter, bubbling and uncontrolled, as Julian fought him off with his hat.
“You bastard! I hate you! I will kill you for this!” But Julian’s bright eyes belied the words, and however much he tried to tamp down his smile, it escaped all control.
Christian was cackling as he applauded. “Rafi, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Julian’s gonna knife you in your sleep, but you have my approval. Good luck!” He slid into the car, followed by Lyle, who gave them a thumbs-up over his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m getting in the passenger seat,” Amber said, clutching her new sword, “one ride crushed into the back was enough for me. Byeee!” She walked around the car, waving.
“Bye, Amber!”
“‘Tis a shame to see the back of thee, madam, and not a knife in it yet,” Julian said pleasantly. “Yet the wheel of the year is but half-turned! There shall be time for all our pleasures in the days to come.”
“It’s been real, Pea Cock,” Amber said, and closed the car door.
“I think Amber likes you,” Rafi said when they’d gone back inside the Faire.
“She likes a sword,” Julian said. “But if thou speak’st aright, I am glad on it. Every man knows that to woo a lover is to woo that lover’s dearest intimates as well.”
“I would rather you didn’t ‘woo’ Amber. Not that you’d get very far, you’re the wrong gender.”
Julian chuckled, leaning closer and tipping his face up, to see out from under the hat. “Jealousy? And what need of that, when I am here alone with thee?”
“Just you, me, and Shakespeare, apparently.” Rafi pulled him closer, settling his hands comfortably on Julian’s waist. “But yeah, it’s not terrible finally having you to myself.”
“The better for thy murder to go unwitnessed, O committer of atrocities against my flesh.” Julian was winding his arms around Rafi’s neck, their chests almost touching. He was still flushed and bright-eyed with laughter, and Rafi couldn’t look away.
“Yeah? What would you rather I did to your flesh?”
Before Julian could answer, Rafi’s eyes tracked sideways to a woman filming them with her phone.
“Oh,” she squeaked, realizing she’d been made. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Invite him over,” called another woman, part of a small group a few yards away. When the phone-holder dithered, her friend laughed and came up to join her.
“Your Majesty,” the friend said with a deep curtsey, “might we poor players impose on your kindness for the space of a song? This maiden here has thirty years this very day, and ‘twould be the greatest gift you might grant her!”
“You don’t have to!” the birthday girl squeaked, her face going scarlet.
“‘Your Majesty’?” Rafi repeated, bemused.
“Is not ‘Reyes’ a name for kings?”
It was, and Rafi wondered whether these ladies were hardcore fans, or if she just happened to speak Spanish.
Julian was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “Well, Your Majesty, these ladies have addressed both your soft heart and your vanity. Can you resist them?”
“Certainly not,” Rafi said, shaking his head. “All right, we’ll join you for one song.”
The ladies excitedly led them over to the rest of their group, who were lounged under a tree, perhaps taking a break from performing.
“Does this make you my consort?” Rafi murmured, linking his arm with Julian’s as they walked.
Julian sniffed. “Ruler of a rival nation, perhaps. You are pursuing a treaty with me and thus attempting to win my favor.”
Rafi winked. “I might be pursuing more than a treaty.”
“You might be sent home empty-handed,” Julian returned dryly, but he kept his arm through Rafi’s.
Rafi savored the idea, as the little medieval band got themselves arranged and calmed down enough to play. He and Julian as kings of rival nations, Rafi seeking to end a war, perhaps, turn their peoples from enemies to allies. He would bring gifts, offer concessions, speak to Julian with the most excruciating courtesy, while Julian returned his sharp-tongued judgement on all of it—and yet did not send Rafi away, so clearly he saw something there he liked…
Sound broke his reverie, the players setting up their instruments—drums, pipes, a lute and something that might be a psaltery.
“Mind if we record it?” one member said shyly, indicating a camera and tripod.
“That’s fine. What are we singing?”
The birthday girl, still red-faced, said, “Well, um, Scarborough Fair is kind of a favorite?”
“Sounds good to me,” Rafi said, and the musicians began to play the intro to the song. Rafi had no idea if any of the players normally sang, but today they stuck to their instruments, giving him the spotlight.
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
He once was a true love of mine.”
He found he had chosen to go with male pronouns for the ‘true love’ of the song without thinking about it, partly because his bisexual ass could do that whenever he wanted, and partly because he was there with Julian. A moment later he thought he should have used female pronouns and dedicated the song—which was, under all the beautiful melody, a middle finger to an ex—to Bo. Too late now, and probably just as well.
“Tell him to make me a cambric shirt,
Without no seam nor needlework—”
Impossible tasks, Rafi thought in amusement—then faltered in surprise when he heard Julian joining in, soft and surprisingly sweet, adding the “Canticle” part from the famous Simon & Garfunkel version. Of course that wasn’t written until the 1960s, by no means an original part of the song, but Rafi figured he wasn’t the only one who was so accustomed to it that the song sounded strange without it.
And he sounded good. Julian’s voice might not be super-star caliber, Rafi thought, but he was still a pleasure to the ear. A pleasure to all the senses, wasn’t that what he’d said earlier? And his timing was perfect, which was difficult with “Canticle.” Somewhere along the line, if only alone in his r
oom, Julian had practiced this.
Two verses, then three, without a stumble. Hadn’t the fortune-teller made some kind of crack about he and Julian making harmony together? Rafi might owe her an apology for laughing. It felt like a long time since he had sung with someone whose company he truly enjoyed, someone he trusted to carry their end. And he hadn’t even asked it of Julian. He’d jumped in of his own volition.
Julian’s part faded out in the last verse, and Rafi sang alone to the accompaniment of the really-quite-good musicians—but it didn’t feel like singing alone, not with Julian warm and close beside him, watching his face as he sang, one hand resting lightly on Rafi’s wrist and the bracelet there.
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
He once was a true love of mine.”
The notes trailed off, and after a moment of appreciative silence, the musicians—and the small crowd that had gathered around them—applauded heartily. Overcome by excitement, the drum player raised his voice above the noise.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Rafael Reyes of Distant Kingdom!”
“And Julian Gault!” the piper added.
The crowd perked up, and moved in a little tighter around them; Rafi tried not to grimace. The birthday girl and her friend gave them apologetic looks.
“This is our chance for publicity, I guess,” Rafi said. That had been part of the deal…
Julian looked at him. “I guess it would be,” he said, and started leading the way out of the crowd, politely turning down requests for signings and selfies as they went.
* * * *
They managed to lose the crowd as they slipped out into the parking lot, Julian staying oddly quiet.
“I hope I didn’t overstep,” he finally said, “joining in with the song—I felt strange just standing there in silence.”
“It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”
Julian looked away, his face hidden by the feathered hat.
“I was thinking,” Rafi added, steering them toward his car, “that we could go to my place. Eat those leftovers from Baserri.”
“All I have to eat at my place is protein powder,” Julian said, “so I suppose we might as well.”
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