Holding Court

by K. C. Held

  “I didn’t want one anyway,” I mumble, and throw the piece of straw in the garbage.

  “I’m happy to see you made it through your shift without any more mishaps with your costume,” Geoffrey says, eyeing me from his table in the middle of the room.

  “Yup. It’s a little sweaty but no afterbirth.” I toss my costume in one of the laundry bins and feel a blurt coming on. “Sneaky cherubs lead the way!” I advise Geoffrey, which almost sounds like a normal thing to say.

  He nods. “See you tomorrow, Mistress Verity. Congratulations on surviving your first day as the Maid of Kent,” he says, and I decide I could definitely get used to working at a place where people don’t even blink when I let loose with one of my blurts.

  “Thanks, Geoffrey. Keep rocking that fanny pack.” I make a break for the exit, then stop dead in my tracks. Tacked up on a bulletin board next to the heavy wooden door of the Great Wardrobe is a hodgepodge of fabric scraps and snapshots of Tudor Times employees in costume. In one of the pictures there’s a young woman standing next to Henry VIII. She’s making some sort of adjustment to the heavy gold necklace lying on his chest while he grins directly at the camera. I recognize both the necklace and the girl. The last time I saw her she had it wrapped around her throat.

  I’ve found the missing dead girl.

  I grab one of the employees entering the Great Wardrobe. “Hey, can you tell me who that is?” I point to the snapshot.

  “You haven’t met Mr. Bacon?”

  “No, not Mr. Bacon. The woman helping him with his costume.”

  “Oh, that’s Sarah.”

  “Sarah?”

  “Yeah, Sarah Buckley. She’s the wardrobe assistant.”

  “Do you know if she’s here today?”

  “No clue. You could ask Geoffrey.”

  I walk over to Geoffrey’s table and wait while he helps one of Henry’s wives unpin her headdress.

  “Did you need something, Mistress Verity?” he asks when he notices me hovering.

  “I just wanted to ask you about your assistant, Sarah. Is she here today?”

  “Sarah? No, she sent me a message last night that she had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in today.”

  “Last night? What time?”

  He sets the headdress down and puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t believe I checked the time. You do ask a lot of questions, Mistress Verity. And here I thought you already knew all the answers, being psychic and all.”

  “I just…she looks like someone I saw the other night and I was wondering if it was the same person.”

  “Well, when she comes back you can ask her yourself.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks,” I say, even though I know she won’t be back. Ever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dying to Tell

  I’m dying to tell someone I’ve figured out who the dead girl is. Okay, maybe that’s not the best choice of words. I really, really want to tell someone I’m not crazy and I didn’t hallucinate the girl in the passageway. I pull out my cell phone to see if I can catch Gran and Cami, and someone grabs my arm.

  Certain that I’m about to get busted for using technology on the premises, I’m surprised when I look up into the worried face of one of King Henry’s knights.

  “Hey, I’m Mike. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Mike the Knight gestures for me to follow him a little ways down the hall. “You’re the new nun, right?” he asks.

  “Jules Verity,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Mike Finkler. I play Sir Nicholas Carew, one of King Henry’s Knights of the Garter. I heard you talking about Sarah.”

  “Oh.” Crap.

  “When did you see her? Was it last night?”

  “Um, I’m not sure if it was her or not.”

  “Where was she? She was supposed to meet me after work last night and she never showed. I’ve tried calling her but she’s not answering her phone.”

  Oh, jeez. I’m pretty sure Mike won’t share my relief at discovering Sarah is my missing dead girl. “Geoffrey said she had a family emergency.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he told me, too. Did you happen to notice if she was carrying anything with her? A jeweled weapon, like a dagger maybe?”

  “Uh, no. I’m pretty sure she didn’t have a dagger.”

  “Well, if you see her again, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “Okay, sure.” You’re not the only one.

  “Thanks. Good to meet you, Jules. I’ll see you around.”

  I dial Cami’s number as I make my way toward the staff parking lot.

  “Hey, where are you guys?” I ask when she picks up.

  “We’re halfway down the hill in Rosie. Are you off?”

  “Gran brought the golf cart? I was hoping you guys could give me a ride.”

  “Your mom’s van is a ‘voracious gas guzzler’ according to your grandmother. If you hurry, you can probably catch us on your bike.”

  I hear Gran say, “Ha ha,” in the background. And then, “You’d better watch your carbon footprint, missy.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you when I get home. I have news!”

  “Really? What is it? Grayson Chandler is secretly in love with you? I knew it!”

  “Oh, shut up. No. I figured out who the dead girl is.”

  “You did? That’s awesome!”

  “Yeah, except now I feel guilty about being relieved that she wasn’t a vision of the past or whatever like Gran told King Henry.”

  “How’d you figure out who she was?”

  I tell her about the picture on the wall in the Great Wardrobe and about my conversation with Mike the Knight.

  “Are you going to tell Hank?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.” I don’t know what to think about Hank. On the one hand I can’t really picture him having anything to do with murder. But on the other hand, it’s his necklace, his castle, and his secret passageway—that he supposedly knew nothing about. “I want to see what I can find out about the dead girl first.” And I want to find out if Hank is connected to her in any way other than employer and employee.

  “Well, hurry up and get home. You’ll probably beat us there. Ow! Your grandmother just punched me in the arm.”

  “You deserve it. Okay, I’m unlocking my bike right now. I’ll see you in twenty.”

  “Ride safe.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  I strap my helmet on, hop on my bike, and head down the hill toward downtown Lunevale.

  I’m pedaling along, thinking about Sarah, and the pearl, and wondering how it all connects, when I become aware of the sound of an engine behind me. The road leading up to the castle is narrow and bounded by hedges on either side so there not only isn’t a bike lane, there isn’t even a shoulder to scooch over onto. I slow down and inch over as far as I can, hoping the car will pass. Instead the engine sound gets louder and I turn to see who the dickhead is that’s riding my ass. The next thing I know I’m flying through the air. I have time to think, Well, shit, before I hit the hedge and everything goes black.

  When I open my eyes I’m pretty sure I’ve died and gone to heaven, because Grayson Chandler is looking down at me.

  He cups my face in his hands. “Jules? Jules, are you okay? Please say something.”

  “You look really good in tights,” I say.

  He looks confused for a second and then laughs. “If I didn’t suspect you have a head injury, I’d swear you were flirting with me, Juliet Verity.” He lets go of my face and straightens up. “Are you all right? You were totally lights-out just now.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “And so are you.” I smile at him dreamily.

  “Uh, well, as much as I’d love to hang out by the side of the road with you, I think we’d better get you to a hospital.”

  “I don’t like hospitals. They smell like misery and fish sticks.”

  “Jules, I think we should get you checked out,” he says. “There’s a huge crack in your helmet.”

  “Nah, I�
�m okay,” I say and I knock on my helmet for effect. “Ow.”

  “I’m taking you to the ER. At the very least, you probably have a mild concussion.”

  Grayson pulls me upright and slings my arm around his shoulder. “Can you make it to my car?”

  “Nope. You should probably carry me nestled in your arms. Oops, did I say that out loud? Ooh, look at the pretty stars. My head hurts.”

  Grayson pulls me against him and half carries me over to his car.

  “This would be so much more romantic if you had a horse,” I say.

  He turns me toward him and leans down to look into my eyes. I’m about to pucker up when he says, “Your pupils look okay, but you’re definitely dazed and confused.”

  “Yes, definitely,” I say. “It’s the head injury talking. A nun would never say such things.”

  He helps me into the passenger seat. “I’m going to grab your bike. Hang on a second.”

  I lean my head against the seat back and try to clear my muddled brain while he loads my crumpled bike, and then we’re off.

  “What happened?” he asks. “Did you hit a rock or something?”

  “I don’t think so.” I play the scene over in my head. “I heard a car behind me and I looked back to see why they weren’t passing and the next thing I know I’m lying on the ground looking up at you.” I pause, remembering my tights comment. “Also, we should remember that I have a head injury and am not responsible for anything I might have said.”

  “Duly noted, although I kind of like Head Injury Jules. Not that I actually want you to have a head injury. So, yeah, I saw your bike on the side of the road and pulled over. You must have just crashed. What did the car look like?”

  “I don’t know. It happened so fast, I didn’t really get a look at it.”

  “Are things always this dire with you?” he asks, and then he looks over at me and smiles and my insides go all melty again and I have to restrain myself from telling him that Head Injury Jules really wants to kiss him right now.

  “It’s been kind of a crazy couple of days,” I say instead. Do not think about how gorgeous he is. Think about the dead body. Or the fact that you are still wearing your bike helmet and probably look like a total doof. Do not think about the fact that you are alone in a car with Grayson Chandler and he is grinning at you like he’s thrilled you’re here. Focus on the fact that he has the sweetest, most perfect girlfriend in the world who has been nothing but kind to you even though almost everyone else at Lunevale High thinks you’re a freak. “Where’s Bree?”

  His smile disappears. “She got a ride home with Kaitlyn, her lady-in-waiting. She’s kind of upset with me right now.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Jules. If I had just given you a ride in the first place this wouldn’t have happened. Do you think it was an accident? Just someone being a dick or did they try to run you off the road on purpose?”

  “I don’t know. Why would someone want to run me off the road?” And then I realize. The dead girl. I figured out who she is. What if someone was trying to shut me up? “The dead girl is Sarah Buckley, the wardrobe assistant,” I say. I want someone else to know.

  “The dead girl? You mean the one you saw in the passageway? Really? It was Sarah? How do you know?”

  “I saw a picture of her in the Great Wardrobe. I’m sure it’s her.”

  “You don’t think it was a hallucination? Or some kind of, I don’t know…psychic thing?”

  “No. She was real. I don’t hallucinate things. I mostly just have a blurting problem. Cami calls it Psychic Tourette’s Syndrome because I can’t control it. But it’s really not a very accurate description because only like ten percent of people with Tourette’s have a problem with blurting out inappropriate stuff, which is actually called coprolalia. But since I don’t know what else to call what I do, her description sort of stuck.” I’m babbling. I clamp my lips together and sneak a glance at Grayson.

  He’s staring straight ahead but his forehead is all crumpled up like he’s struggling with a question on a calculus quiz. Or trying to figure out how to get me out of his car.

  “Basically, I blurt out random stuff that usually makes no sense at the time, but is somehow important for me to say. At least, that’s the current theory,” I explain.

  Grayson doesn’t say anything for the next couple of miles and I wish I could take back my revelation. Coprolalia? Did I really need to go there? Maybe I should remind him again that I have a head injury.

  He finally looks over at me and says, “So you didn’t cheat on that math test in sixth grade?”

  “Nope.” I can’t help but cringe when I remember how he looked at me that day. Like I was lower than the lowest lowly thing.

  “Then how did you know the answers ahead of time?”

  “I have no idea. And I only blurted out the answer to one of the questions so it’s not like I knew all of them.”

  “You got suspended from school.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t know about my PTS. You thought you were turning in a cheater. The sad thing is, all I wanted to do was ask you if you were interested in coming over to play Stormin’ Da Castle.”

  “No way.” He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Way. I’d been dying to ask you ever since you came to school in your Anybody Want a Peanut? T-shirt.”

  “Wow, I had no idea you were a Princess Bride fan.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s the greatest thing in the world. Except for a nice MLT.”

  “A mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich?”

  “Yeah, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. They’re so perky, I love that.” I pause. “I feel compelled to say that I’m just quoting Miracle Max here. I don’t really like mutton. I actually think it tastes like wet wool.”

  “Inconceivable!” Grayson says. “I wish I’d known about our shared love.”

  I gulp and then realize he’s still talking about the movie. “My dad took me to a special showing for the twentieth anniversary. I was instantly smitten.”

  “Me, too.” Grayson gives me a dimpled smile and I remember how instantly smitten I was the first time I saw him looking like an eleven-year-old Westley in his Fezzik T-shirt. And then he got older and instead of noticing what was on his T-shirts I started noticing what was under them, namely his legendary abs. Of course, he was madly in love with Bree Blair by then and had been avoiding me for years on account of the whole math test disaster.

  “I should have realized. You were the only person who laughed when I read my Morons poem in Mrs. Keatley’s class. I thought it was hilarious.”

  “It was hilarious. But you kind of had to know Vizzini.”

  “You’re probably right. You have the best laugh ever, by the way.” Grayson is quiet again and then he says, “What’s a Hepplewhite, anyway?”

  “What? Oh.” Oh God, the booger blurt. “It’s a style of furniture named after an English cabinetmaker.”

  “Furniture? Interesting. I’ll let you know if I find any boogers. Although I have to admit, I’m not feeling very enthusiastic about the prospect.”

  “Yeah, no. I can’t imagine how finding a booger depository is crucially important to your future. And somehow I don’t think it’s going to leave you madly impressed with my psychic skills.”

  “You can’t…” He pauses. “I mean, you don’t know how to read minds or anything, do you?”

  I laugh. “Nope. My talent is completely uncontrollable, as far as I can tell. Sometimes I know what I’m going to say right before I say it, but usually I’m just as surprised as everyone else.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I can’t have you going around reading my mind. That would be embarrassing.”

  “For both of us, I’m sure,” I say and let out a hearty chuckle as if I find the idea amusing rather than terrifying. “You believe me about Sarah, right?”

  “Of course. Why would you l
ie?”

  “Did you know her? Sarah, I mean.”

  “Not really, but I think she was friends with Bree.”

  “Who isn’t friends with Bree?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “True,” he says and glances over at me. “Did you tell Hank?”

  “No, besides Gran and Cami, you’re the only person I’ve told.”

  We pull into the ER parking lot. “Let’s go get your head checked, Buttercup.”

  I barely manage to restrain myself from saying, “As you wish.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Someone’s Got to Keep the New Nun Safe

  We’re the only ones in the ER, aside from an elderly man snoring in the corner. It’s a quiet night in Candor County, apparently. A nurse checks me in while Grayson sits in the waiting room.

  “What happened, honey?”

  I tell her about my bike crash and show her my helmet. Grayson’s right; there’s a huge crack in it. I’m pretty sure my bike looks even worse. I have some ugly scratches on my arms and legs courtesy of the hedge, but otherwise I seem to be fairly unscathed.

  “You’re one lucky lady,” the nurse tells me. “I’ll have the doc check you over, make sure you don’t have a concussion. You’ll want to file a police report about the accident, okay?”

  I say, “Okay,” but I don’t see the point. All I can tell the police is that I heard a car and then I crashed into a hedge.

  The nurse leads me to a curtained-off space where a doctor shines a light in my eyes, asks me a bunch of questions, and tells me to take it easy for the next couple of days. And to get a new helmet.

  “All right honey, you’re free to go,” the nurse tells me. “We’ll let you get back to that cutie patootie in the waiting room. You’re lucky in more ways than one, sugar.” She gives me a nudge and raises an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, uh, not really. But thanks.”

  “Hey, how’d it go?” Grayson asks.

  “I guess I hit the hedge just right. I’m supposed to take it easy and come back in if I have any emergency symptoms of concussion, but otherwise I’m good to go.”