It seems to take us forever to collect ourselves, and Will reaches over and pats my knee. “You could crash with us. Davis won’t mind.”
The invitation makes me blush, even though it’s as innocent as can be. But I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go to Cassie’s, that would just be awkward, and showing up at Christian’s is a step I’m not ready to take yet. I nod to Will, shy to accept, and he smiles just as shyly back.
Will pulls me into his tent, and Davis looks up from a comic book with irritation. “Dude. We have a deal. If you want to bring a girl back to the tent, use the code word so I can get out of here before—”
“Dude yourself,” Will says to him, smiling. “Ro’s tentmate is getting down with a knight right now, so she’s crashing here. Unless you’ve got a problem with that.”
Davis looks at me, jerking his chin once in my direction. “Nah. No offense, Pukey. I just thought . . . well, you know. At least I was hoping for his sake. But I should have known. Will’s a complete disaster when it comes to women.”
“Is that so?” I ask, just as Will launches one of his pillows at Davis’s head. Davis smoothly dodges it and grins at me.
“Very so.”
Maybe it’s his way of challenging Davis’s remarks, or maybe Davis is wrong about him, but Will does two awesome things for me after that. The first is that he gives me his sweatshirt, which is from a quiz bowl competition he participated in during high school. IT’S ALL SO TRIVIAL it reads on the front, and there’s a list of quiz team members on the back, with a drawing of a brain set in the background. I see Will’s name nearly at the top, with only an Adams and a Fitzpatrick above him.
The second is that he gives me his air mattress and lies down in the small space on the floor. After an argument, in which I politely refuse to take his bed and he politely refuses to let me refuse, I give in and slip on his sweatshirt before making myself at home in his bed. His pillow is soft, and the sheets feel a lot more worn in and comfortable than my own. I pull the sleeves of his sweatshirt up around my hands and press them to my face, breathing in.
It smells like him—leather and lighter fluid and Irish Spring, and it makes me feel right at home.
“Good night, Will,” I say as I burrow my head into the pillow.
“Good night, Rainbow Ro.”
“Good night, Will,” Davis says, then adds, “and good night, Pukey McPukerson. Or should I call you Vomit McGee?”
This time, Will’s pillow lands successfully on Davis’s face and he finally shuts up.
14
WEEK 2—MONDAY
When I wake up, Davis is sprawled on his stomach, snoring loudly. Will, on the other hand, is still and quiet on the floor between the air mattresses. He’s used another sweatshirt as a pillow and a blanket is draped around him like a toga, crossing from his shoulder across his torso, where it wraps around his waist and legs.
He’s not wearing a shirt, which surprises me. When I fell asleep he was wearing one, but maybe he got too hot with three people in the tent.
Wait.
Will’s not wearing a shirt.
I lift myself up on my elbows to get a better view, half ashamed of myself and feeling like a peeping Tom, but too curious not to look. He’s . . . not bad at all. He’s got definition to his chest and, from what I can tell, his stomach too. Not like Kyle, who lifted weights quite a bit for lacrosse, and maybe not like I imagine Christian is after all that knight training, but it’s enough. And there’s something extra nice about knowing that he’s gotten it naturally, not in a gym or in a contest to be the most threatening on a field.
Good lord, Ro. You’re checking out the whip cracker.
I think this place might be starting to mess with my mental health. I shake my head at myself and slip out of bed as quietly as I can, folding Will’s sweatshirt neatly and setting it on the foot of his mattress. Both boys are still sleeping soundly as I exit the tent.
The sun is up, faint but growing stronger, and it’s clearly going to be a hot day. It’s already warm and humid enough that the lacy tank I’m wearing from last night is comfortable. I estimate that it’s about eight o’clock, smiling proudly at myself for even guessing. I’m probably not as accurate at telling the time by the sun’s position as Will and Lindy are, but I bet I’m close.
Since the faire is closed today, most of the employees are still sleeping, taking advantage of the hours off. Ramón will serve breakfast, but later, making it more like brunch. I have a while. I could take a nice long shower, fix my hair, and perhaps work on some of my watercolors, and all before my first meal. That is, if Grant has gone home and isn’t still in our tent.
“Have a good night?”
I whirl around, and Christian is behind me. He looks from me, pointedly, to Will’s tent, and back again.
I feel my skin prickle and flush, like I’ve been caught, only I haven’t really been caught at anything. “I . . . I had to spend the night with Will because Grant was in my tent with Suze.”
He cocks his head at me and I rush to clarify. “Not with Will. Just. You know. On his floor. We’re just friends.”
Christian studies me as if trying to find the cracks in my story, and I’m not entirely sure there aren’t some there. I can feel myself shrinking, bit by bit, as he looks at me. I hate the feeling, so I try to shift our focus. “Where did you go last night?”
Christian looks away, and I immediately wish I would have used a nicer tone, a less accusatory tone. “Just drama again,” he says, resigned.
“Everything okay?”
He shrugs. “I guess.” He glances at Will’s tent again, and there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. “So the whip cracker—”
“Just a friend,” I rush to say. “So you don’t have to defend my honor, sir knight.”
Christian, finally, smiles at my cheek. “I thought we’d been over this. Your honor’s no good around me.”
He moves close to me, and though he doesn’t put his arms around me, I can still feel the heat pouring off his skin, I can still smell his clean scent. He reaches out, sliding a finger from my collarbone over my throat to my chin, lifting it slightly. He pauses, searching my eyes, and I gaze back, wondering if he’s finally going to kiss me and holding my breath like I’ve never held it in my life.
The crunching of dried grass and leaves makes us both turn slowly, reluctantly, toward the source. Grant is heading our way, amused.
“Tent’s free,” Grant says to me, looking rather proud of himself. “And Suze said something about wanting to go to breakfast with you. Sorry for kind of kicking you out last night.”
“That’s all right. She spent the night with the whip cracker,” Christian says. His voice seems somewhat mocking, and it makes me bristle.
“We’re just friends,” I repeat in my defense.
“Of course. I stay the night in friends’ tents all the time. No big deal, right?” Christian says, and I know for sure then that he doesn’t quite believe me. My heart sinks. Have I just screwed up my chance with Christian?
“And Christian does have a lot of friends,” Grant says, and his smirk blossoms into an expression of pure delight. “I think Fuller made him jealous.”
“There’s no reason for him to be jealous,” I say, but I’m ignored as Christian talks over me.
“Please. Will Fuller?” Christian sneers. “What kind of talent is waving a whip around, anyway? He probably couldn’t even lift one of our swords.”
“There’s an art to whip cracking. It takes a lot of skill,” I say in Will’s defense before I realize how that sounds to Christian. When I look at him, his lip is curled in disgust.
“Hear that, Christian? Fuller’s got skills.”
Christian shoots Grant a look that’s downright murderous—a look that he shifts to me in a somewhat less potent form before he turns and walks away, leaving Grant and me alone on the path.
I mutter a curse and rub my temples with my fingers, fighting an oncoming headache that ju
st might rival a mead hangover. When I open my eyes, Grant’s looking at me, his expression fixed solidly between sadistic joy and concern.
“I really screwed that up,” I say, and Grant chuckles.
“How? You should be given some prize, at least a gold medal.”
I scrunch my brows together in confusion, and Grant rolls his eyes like he can’t believe I don’t get what he’s saying. “What? Why?”
“I’ve never seen him jealous like that. Ever.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I ask, even though I know the answer. My heart flutters like a hummingbird. Christian’s jealous. Over me.
“For you, maybe,” Grant says. “For Fuller? Not so much.”
Grant leaves me with that rather interesting—and somewhat concerning—tidbit of information, and I hurry back to my tent, wanting to get out of these clothes and get a shower.
Suze has other ideas, however, and chucks shorts and a T-shirt at me. “Put these on,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Dad’s making omelets. Trust me, you do not want to miss this.”
If Suze says I don’t want to miss something, I definitely don’t, so I throw on the outfit she’s picked out for me and tie my hair back into a somewhat respectable ponytail. We fill each other in on our nights as we walk to the wagon, Suze going into a little too much detail and me blushing the whole time.
Inside the wagon, something smells delightful. Peter’s at the small stove, waving a spatula over a skillet like it’s some sort of magic wand, and Lindy’s cutting up ingredients and placing them into separate bowls.
Lindy greets me and Suze with a kiss on our cheeks and tells us to take whatever we want for our omelets. As Suze and I help ourselves to tomatoes, cheese, green peppers, and mushrooms, Peter hums a happy tune, shaking his hips to his own beat as he lets the eggs cook to a delicious yellow.
“How was the campfire last night?” Lindy asks, and Suze and I both rush to say, “Fine!” and look away in case we laugh.
“Uh-huh,” Lindy says, as if she knows exactly what goes on at the campfires. Considering she and Peter are lifers, she probably has some personal experience to draw from.
“What are you guys up to today?” Suze says, changing the subject.
“Omelets. Then I’m going to see a man about a pair of trained ravens,” Peter says, and I can’t help but chuckle a little that trained ravens are just normal conversation for the Mulligans. He takes my plate from me, adds my choices to the pan, and flips the egg over on itself. He makes a big show of letting the whole thing slide from the skillet onto my plate and hands it back to me with a little bow. I thank him and grab a fork.
“And I’m going to head into town because the craft store has a sale on fabric,” Lindy says. “You girls could come with me if you want.”
“Nah, I’ll just hang around here,” Suze says, and I know what she means is that she and Grant have plans. Lindy looks to me.
“I was actually going to work on some art,” I say, hoping I’m not disappointing her too much.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem at all put off by it. “You should drop by Robbie’s. Have you met her yet? She’s quite talented. She’d love another artist to talk with.”
Another artist. The simple acknowledgment that I’m an artist makes me beam.
“I’ve been meaning to go see her. That sounds like a great plan.” Excited about the idea, I sit back and enjoy my omelet quietly as the Mulligans chatter about trained ravens and dress fabric.
Robbie’s shop door is locked when I arrive, but I can see her inside through the window so I tap on the glass. She looks up from her work, grinning, and calls out, “Be right there!” She opens the door wide and welcomes me in. She’s not dressed in Renaissance clothing, but her clothes aren’t exactly modern either. She’s wearing a long skirt with a linen blouse and a scarf in her hair. Her smile is as kind as Lindy’s and as quirky as Meg’s.
“I completely forgot to unlock the door. How unfriendly of me,” she says. “Ro, right? The face painter?”
“Yes, I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”
“I was hoping you would! Would you like some tea?”
I look around her small shop, which is filled to the point of claustrophobia with painted teapots and teacups and serving trays, and just about every type of furniture you could imagine that could be used for a display.
“Which teacups do you actually use?” I ask, not meaning to sound rude in any way.
“Oh!” Robbie exclaims, and starts laughing, her round body shaking with it. “Well, I don’t use the fancy ones myself. I keep a few in the back that are rather embarrassing. Have a seat, I’ll brew us a cup.”
As she disappears into a back room, I sit on a chair that looks like it might be part of a display, but it’s the only chair that’s as easily accessible as the one Robbie was using. Hers sits behind a table no bigger than the desks we have at school, and there’s a set of teacups on it that look only partially finished. Next to that, like my station at the face painting tent, are jars of brushes and different palettes of paints. Tucked behind her jars and paints are a few carved trolls, peeking out at me like little mischievous spies. I wonder if maybe they are magical, since I see so many of them around here. Maybe they watch over the faire folk.
I smile at my ridiculousness as Robbie emerges with two steaming mugs, and hands one to me. The tea is Earl Grey, and despite the heat of the day and the warm air inside the shop, it tastes delicious.
“Your work is beautiful,” I tell her, and she looks around her shop at her work.
“I’m pleased you think so. I hear you’re quite the artist.”
“I do okay with faces,” I say.
“I meant your sketches. Will tells me they’re quite beautiful.”
I pick up my tea and hold it in front of my mouth to hide my smile. “Will talks to everyone, doesn’t he?”
“He’s basically our town crier,” Robbie says with a wink. “But he doesn’t lie. If he says you’re good, you’re good.”
“I think I’m getting better. This summer I’ve really started to pay attention, you know? To see things around me in a new way.”
Robbie completely gets what I’m saying. She nods emphatically. “Yes, when you start to see everything around you like a painting, that’s when you know.”
“Know what?”
“Know you’re toast,” Robbie says, laughing. “Once painting has its claws in you, you’re never the same again.”
“Sounds painful,” I muse.
“Only if you fight it,” Robbie says. She pauses like she’s expecting me to say something else, but I don’t, so she gestures to her teacups. “Ever paint a teacup? Quite different from a canvas, though it might not be that different from a face.”
I pick up one of her teacups and study the design she’s started on it. It’s a vine of blue and green, curling around the cup as if growing up its sides.
“When I paint faces, I kind of work with their features. Long noses lend themselves to badgers and superheroes, tiny noses to cats and rabbits.” I set down the teacup. “I’m sure each teacup has its own story to tell, too. Its own possibility.”
Robbie says nothing to that, but after a moment of looking at me with a rather intense sort of scrutiny, she gets up and disappears into the back again. When she comes out she has a wooden wine goblet in her hands. She hands it to me, takes a seat, and smiles in my direction.
“What is its story?”
I grin and select a small, slanted-bristle brush from her collection and get to work. She takes up her brush and starts back on her vines and we work in silence until she figures out that I’m painting the stages of the moon all the way around in a looping design. That gets her asking questions about my art lessons, and in turn I ask about how she learned, and what seems like only minutes later, we’ve each painted about six drinking vessels and it feels like we’re old friends. It’s only when the bell tower chimes that we realize we’ve been sitting there for three hours.
&nb
sp; I pick up the goblet with the moons on it, which is now fully dry. The grays and blues swirl wonderfully on it, and I’m proud of my shadowing.
“You should keep that,” Robbie says. “Or . . .”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or you could sell it. I could display it here, and if someone buys it, I’ll give you the money.”
“Sell something I’ve painted?” I ask doubtfully.
Robbie gets a kick out of that. She laughs, rolling back in her chair. “You sell your paintings every day! They’re just on people’s faces instead of cups or goblets.”
“I guess, but . . .” I make a face. “This is so different.”
“You can make a living being an artist, you know. I know from experience. And trust me, these will sell.” She gestures to my goblets and teacups, which, honestly, look pretty decent. “You just have to promise me one thing, if I sell these for you.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“That you’ll let me see some of those sketches Will was raving about.”
“Deal,” I say. “Maybe I can stop by Wednesday after my tavern shift?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Robbie promises, and I leave her with her teacups and mine, beautiful and ready for a buyer.
Ramón is busy basting and marinading and stirring when I stop by the tavern kitchen. His day off, I have learned, comprises doing any and every task in the kitchen that can be done ahead of time, to save himself the hassle during the week.
He barely looks up at me before shoving a raw turkey leg in a vat of something I can’t identify and then throwing it into a large Ziploc bag with the others.
“Need help?” I ask.
“No.”
I sit on a stool next to his counter space. “Can I make a sandwich?”
Ramón slowly turns his head to me, his right eyebrow arching toward the ceiling. “Now the truth comes out. There’s ham in the fridge.”
The tavern has about five fridges and two freezers in the back room, but I take a wild guess and find the correct fridge on my third try. I set the ham on the counter, pull out a bun from the gigantic supply of them in the cabinet, and set to work layering ham until it’s stacked the way I want it. When I open up the fridge and pull out a jar of mayonnaise, a hand closes over mine.
My Faire Lady Page 16