"Not anyplace I've ever seen," she answered. "Remember, Richmond didn't do too much worth bragging about in the Revolution. They're all running around in hoop skirts, fixated on the 1860s and St. Robert E. Lee. And I thought Scarlet O'Hara looked foolish," she added, shaking her head. "She must be three feet wide, and no more than a foot deep."
"That was the style back then," I said. "Like Marie Antoinette."
"Looks like a paper doll," Amanda said. "How's she going to get up if she ever falls down?"
"You could trip her and we could find out," I suggested.
"Don't tempt me," Amanda said, with a chuckle.
Mrs. Waterston still stood in the town square, turning slowly, surveying her domain. A frown creased her forehead.
"Oh, Lord," I muttered. "Now what?"
"What's wrong?" Eileen asked.
"Mrs. Waterston's upset about something."
"Mrs. Waterston's always upset about something," Eileen said. "Don't worry. I'm sure it's not your problem."
Probably not, but that wouldn't stop Mrs. Waterston from making it my problem. I'd worked like a dog to make the craft fair successful. I'd twisted crafters' arms to participate. Begged, browbeaten, or blackmailed friends and relatives to show up and shop. Harassed the local papers for publicity.
And it worked. We'd gotten a solid number of artists, and their quality was far better than we had any right to expect for a fair with no track record, especially considering the requirement for colonial costume. Most of the best crafters were old friends, some of whom had passed up prestigious, juried shows to help out. I hoped Mrs. Waterston understood the craft scene well enough to appreciate that without my efforts, she'd have nothing but amateurs selling dried flower arrangements and crocheted toilet paper covers.
And wonder of wonders, with a little last-minute help from Be-Stitched, they were all wearing some semblance of authentic colonial costume. And by the time the barriers opened and the crowd already milling around outside began pouring in, I'd have all the anachronisms put away, if I had to do it myself.
So why was Mrs. Waterston frowning?
"Miss me?" came a familiar voice in my ear, accompanied by a pair of arms slipping around my waist.
"Always," I said, turning around to greet Michael more properly. I ignored Eileen, who had developed a maddening habit of sighing and murmuring "Aren't they sweet?" whenever she saw us together.
"So, shall I set the rest of this stuff up?" Michael asked, eventually.
"Please," I said, and stood back to give him room. Maybe I'd be set up on time after all, and could take a last run around the grounds to make sure everything was shipshape.
I caught Amanda sneaking a pair of glasses out from under her apron and shook my finger at her, in imitation of Mrs. Waterston. She stuck out her tongue at me, put the glasses on, and watched with interest while Michael shed his ornate, gold-trimmed coat, rolled up the flowing sleeves of his linen shirt, and began hauling iron. Then she looked over at me and gave me a thumbs-up.
"What on Earth is that!"
Mrs. Waterston's voice. And much closer than I expected. Though not, thank goodness, quite in our booth. Not yet, anyway. Still, I started; Amanda ripped her glasses off so fast that she dropped them; and Eileen began nervously picking at her dress and hair.
Michael alone seemed unaffected. I wondered, not for the first time, if he was really as oblivious to his mother's tirades as he seemed. Maybe it was just good acting. Or should I have his hearing tested?
"Put that thing away immediately!"
Eileen and Amanda both looked around, startled, to see what they should put away. Michael continued calmly trying to match up half a dozen pairs of andirons on the ground at the front of the booth. I peered around the corner to see who or what had incurred Mrs. Waterston's displeasure.
"Oh, no," I groaned.
"What's wrong?" Michael said, putting down an andiron to hurry to my side.
"Wesley Hatcher, that's what," I said.
"Who's that?" he asked.
"The world's sneakiest reporter," I said, "And living proof that neither a brain nor a backbone are prerequisites for a career as a muckraking journalist. Wesley," I called out, as a jeans-clad figure retreated into our booth, hastily stuffing a small tape recorder into his pocket. "If you're trying to hide, find someplace else."
Wesley turned around, wearing what I'm sure he meant as an ingratiating smile.
"Oh, hi, Meg!" he said. "Long time no see."
Actually, he'd seen me less than two hours previously, when he'd tried to get me to say something misquotable for a snide story on how craftspeople overcharged and exploited their customers. With any other reporter, I'd have seized the opportunity to give him the real scoop on the insecure and underpaid lives so many craftspeople led. But I knew better than to talk to Wesley. I'd made the mistake of talking off the record to him years ago, when he was earning his journalistic reputation as the York Town Crier's most incompetent cub reporter in three centuries. Like the rest of the county, I'd been puzzled but relieved when he'd abandoned our small weekly paper, first for a staff job with the Virginia Commercial Intelligence, a reputable state-business journal, and then, returning to character, for the sleazy but no doubt highly paid world of the Super Snooper, a third-rate tabloid. Why couldn't he have waited until Thanksgiving to come home and visit his parents?
"So, got any juicy stories for me?" Wesley asked.
"Get lost, Wesley," I said.
"Aw, come on," he whined. "Is that any way treat your own cousin?"
"He's your cousin?" Michael asked.
"No," I said.
"Yes," Wesley said, at the same time.
"Only a distant cousin, and about to become a little more distant – right, Wesley?" I said, picking up a set of andirons as I spoke. It wasn't meant to be a physical threat, but if Wesley chose to misinterpret it as one….
"I'll stay out of your way; just ignore me," Wesley said, sidling a little farther off.
Which meant, no doubt, that Wesley thought he could pick up some dirt hanging around my booth. Or possibly that he knew about the orders my mother had given me to "find poor Wesley a nice story that will keep his editor happy." Wesley was a big boy; why was helping him keep his job suddenly my responsibility? I'd taken him on a VIP tour of the festival last night, hoping he'd find something harmless to write about. I'd even shown him the stocks and let him take some pictures of me in them, pictures I knew he'd find a way to misuse sooner or later. What more was I supposed to do? And what had he done to upset Mrs. Waterston?
I peered out again. To my relief, Mrs. Waterston had returned to the town square. Her head was moving slowly, as if she were scanning the lane of booths leading up to ours.
And she was frowning. Maybe she saw something unsatisfactory about our entire row of booths – but no, that was unlikely. This row and the adjoining one were the showplaces, closest to the entrance, where I'd put the best craftspeople with the most authentic colonial costumes and merchandise. I'd kept the weirder stuff toward the back of the fair. More likely she was watching someone walking down the row. Someone who was about to pass my booth, or maybe even enter it….
"Hi, Meg! Has anyone asked for me?"
My brother, Rob.
"No, not yet," I said, eyeing him. I couldn't see anything wrong. His blue jacket, waistcoat, and knee breeches fit nicely; his ruffled shirt and long stockings were gleaming white; both his shoes and the buckles on them were freshly polished; his hair was neatly tied back with a black velvet ribbon, and a tricorn hat perched atop his head at a jaunty but far from rakish angle. Not for the first time, I envied the fact that he'd inherited our mother's aristocratic blond beauty.
"Meg?" he asked. "Is there something wrong? Don't I look okay?"
"You look fine," I said. "Help Michael with some of my ironwork."
"I'm supposed to be meeting someone on business, you know," he announced, for about the twentieth time today. "I don't want to get all sweaty."<
br />
"Well, work slowly if you like, but try to look busy."
"Why?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Because Mrs. Waterston is coming this way," I said, glancing over my shoulder. "Would you rather help me out or do whatever chore she has in mind for you?"
"Where do you want these?" Rob asked, snatching up a pair of candlesticks.
"I've got nearly everything out of the crates and boxes," Michael said. "I should probably go check on the rest of my regiment."
"Fine," I said. "Rob can help me finish."
"I'll bring back some lunch," he said, leaning down to kiss me. "You'll be here, right?"
"Actually, I'll probably be running up and down all day, keeping the crafters and 'the Anachronism Police' from killing each other," I said. "And if things get slow, I need to go down to Faulk's booth for a while."
"Can't Faulk mind his own booth?" Michael said, frowning.
"I'm sure he can," I said. "But he's supposed to inspect my dagger."
"Oh, have you finished the dagger?" Eileen exclaimed. "The one with the falcon handle? Let me see it!"
So, now, of course, I had to show Eileen the dagger. Not that she had to twist my arm too hard – I admit, I was proud of the dagger. Eight months ago, Faulk, the friend who'd introduced me to ironworking when we were in college together, had come back to Virginia after working for the last several years with a world-renowned swordsmith in California. He'd been burning to share what he'd learned about making weapons, and, I confess, I'd caught me bug.
The last couple of months, I'd been working on a dagger, with an intricate ornamental handle and a highly functional steel blade. I'd finished it – at least I hoped it was ready for prime time. But Faulk was the expert. I'd been looking forward for weeks to showing him the dagger.
Eileen oohed and aahed over the dagger so loudly that Amanda came over to see what was going on. Michael, I noticed, was standing aloof, still frowning. I realized, suddenly, that this wasn't the first time over the last few months that he'd shown a certain coolness, even irritation, whenever I'd mentioned my dagger. What was the matter with him, anyway? He didn't seem to feel threatened by my blacksmithing; what was so different about making swords?
I turned my attention back to the dagger in time to grab Amanda's hand before she touched the blade.
"Careful!" I said. "It's razor sharp; you could slice your finger off."
"You get much call for working daggers?" Amanda asked.
"There's a growing market for period weapons," I said. "Renaissance fairs, Society for Creative Anachronism folks – you'd be surprised."
"They let people run around at Renaissance fairs with sharpened swords?"
"No, but this is a test piece," I said. "Proof that I've learned the first stages of what Faulk's been teaching me about the swordsmithing craft. I had to handforge the steel for the blade, just the way they would have in the 1300s, and sharpen it to perfection."
"Can't you just buy the blades somewhere these days?" Rob asked. "From Japan or something? That'd be a lot easier."
"Yes, and you can get them pretty reasonably from India and Japan, and most people couldn't afford a handforged steel blade. But even if you're usually going to buy your blades and just make the handles, Faulk says it's important to learn how they're made the traditional way, so you really understand the steel. You're much better able to choose a good blade if you know how they're made."
Michael frowned again when I mentioned Faulk's name. Aha! Maybe it wasn't swords that bothered him – maybe it was Faulk. As I realized that, he smiled – was it a genuine smile, or was he just making an effort? – and disappeared into the crowd with a slight wave.
"Mr. Right not keen on the swordsmithing project?" Amanda asked.
I shrugged. Damn, she had sharp eyes. I'd only just picked up on it myself.
"Well, you seem to be in good shape," boomed a voice from outside the booth.
Mrs. Waterston. We all whirled, and Rob, who had been testing the blade of my dagger, yelped as he cut himself slightly.
"I told you to be careful," I said, taking the dagger back as Rob sucked his finger with a martyred air.
Mrs. Waterston fixed her gaze on Rob. And frowned.
"Haven't you got anything useful to do?" she asked. She was, I noticed, speaking with an accent that might be mistaken for British, but only by someone who'd never heard the real thing.
Rob looked uncomfortable, and tugged at the ruffled neck of his shirt.
I found myself resenting Mrs. Waterston's immediate assumption that Rob was loitering about with nothing to do. Irrational, since that's just what he would have been doing if I hadn't scared him into action. But then, he was my brother, I might disapprove of his character in private, but I wasn't about to give Mrs. Waterston the privilege.
"He's been helping me unpack," I said. "Put the stand for the dagger right in the middle of the table, Rob."
"Besides, I'm meeting someone here," Rob said. "A business meeting."
"A representative of one of the software companies mat's interested in buying Lawyers from Hell," I added. "You know, the computerized version of the role-playing game he invented."
"Oh. I see," Mrs. Waterston said. "By the way, I've been meaning to speak to you about people's accents."
"Don't worry; I've already given orders about that," I improvised. "Since the fair's located behind American tines, we're going to represent colonial crafters, not British ones. The Town Watch has orders to arrest anyone speaking in a British accent and put them in the stocks, as suspected Tories."
"I see," Mrs. Waterston said, blinking. "Well, then, cany on," she added, in something closer to her normal accent.
She scrutinized Rob once more, as if she still hadn't quite gotten used to the notion of him as capable of inventing something for which grownups would pay good money. Then she turned and sailed off, though not without difficulty. The lane had grown more crowded, and she had to turn sideways every few feet to squeeze her panniers through the crowd. Instead of a galleon in full sail, she looked like a barge being towed through a crowded harbor.
"Wow," Cousin Horace said, peering around the edge of the booth. "That was great."
"So go tell the Town Watch about arresting Tories," I said. Horace disappeared.
"Thanks," Rob murmured, his eyes still on Mrs. Waterston's retreating form.
"No problem," I said. "I thought the guy wasn't supposed to come till noon, though."
"I didn't want to miss him if he came early," Rob said.
Two hours early? Well, it was important to Rob.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you keep out of the customers' way. Or, better yet, make yourself useful. Bring some more stuff out from the back."
"Of course," Rob said, nodding vigorously, and disappeared behind the curtain concealing the storage area in the back of our booth.
"Are you really meeting the softwarecompany guy here?" Eileen asked.
"Yes," Rob said, dragging out one of my metal storage boxes. "It solves the problem of what to wear."
Eileen looked puzzled.
"The first time Rob met with a software company, he got all dressed up in a three-piece suit," I elaborated. "They all showed up in jeans and T-shirts."
"And sandals," Rob said. "I felt like an idiot. So the next time, I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt."
"And I bet they were in three-piece suits," Eileen said.
"Bingo," I said. "So when we heard the latest guy was coming today, while the fair was on, I told Rob to meet him at my booth. He can scope out what the guy's wearing, suggest that they meet at someplace less crowded in half an hour, and change into the uniform of the day, whatever that turns out to be."
"What if he shows up in costume, too?" Rob asked.
"Then drive him up to Colonial Williamsburg and eat at one of the taverns," I said.
"That might work," Rob said. "Thanks. Where should I put these?"
I turned to see him holding up a
pink wrought-iron flamingo.
"Back in the box, quick," I said.
"Why?" he said. He was holding the flamingo out at arms length, inspecting it.
"Put it away, now," I said, dropping a set of fireplace tongs to race over to the box. "Mrs. Waterston will explode if she sees it."
"1 don't see why," he said, as I snatched the flamingo from his hands. "It's kind of cool in a weird way. I like it."
"You would," I said, opening the case to shove the flamingo inside. "It's a complete anachronism and –"
"And you've got a lot of them," Rob said, peering into the case. "Any chance you'd give me – "
"Meg!"
Mrs. Waterston was back. I slammed the lid of the case closed and sat on it, hard, for good measure, ignoring the yelp of pain from Rob, who didn't quite move his hand fast enough to avoid getting nipped by the closing lid. And the small crash to my left, where a customer had dropped* one of Eileen's vases and was now cowering against the curtain at the back of our booth.
"Yes?" I said, ignoring Rob, who was grimacing and shaking his injured hand. "What's wrong, Mrs. Waterston?" I couldn't quite manage a smile, but I think I achieved a polite, interested expression.
"These people you brought are impossible!" she exclaimed.
"Which one in particular?" I asked. Eileen had gone to the customer's side and was making reassuring noises, I noted. I stood up from the chest, warning Rob, with a glance, not to open it again.
"That female glassblower," she said. "She's wearing men's clothes."
"Merry's giving glassblowing demonstrations at noon, two, and four" I said. "She can't wear skirts for that."
"Why on Earth not?"
"Because it would be a serious fire hazard," I said. "Burning was one of the leading causes of death for women in the colonial or any other historical era when cooking and heating methods involved open flames. One good spark and these skirts could go up like so much kindling," I said, shaking my own skirts with resentment. "So, unless you really like the possibility of Merry reenacting the death of Joan of Arc in front of all the tourists, I suggest you overlook her gender for the time being."
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