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They searched the Dregs. They searched the Pits and tore apart the archery game, scaring a dozen peasant men who were showing off for their girlfriends. They pushed their way through the line leading to the privies and upended the stand selling the hair sticks.
At long last, the constables decided he wasn’t to be found. They clomped their way over the Lover’s Bridge, presumably on their way to find their Lord High Sheriff and tell him that they failed.
Dust from the bridge rained down on him. When it cleared, Vaughn peaked out from his hiding space in the culvert. The constables disappeared into the dense thicket of tents in the Gypsy Way. Normally Vaughn wouldn’t have believed that the Lord High Sheriff would be there, but given the recent events of the day, including what he witnessed before the time change… Well, anything was damned well possible now.
Would kind of punishment would the constables experience at the hands of their sadistic boss when they returned empty handed? If the man could so easily condemn to death someone who, that morning at least, had been a friend, what would he do to his worthless lackeys?
There was no ounce if Johnny left in the sadistic SOB. Somehow that made things easier. It made Vaughn’s death sentence easier to accept.
But what about Sammie? What would Jameson do to his own fiancée, his dear betrothed Anne, if he got the thought into his head?
The coast finally cleared. Vaughn sprang out from beneath the bridge and ran to the Pits, jumping over the tall line of grass that was the westernmost boundary of the festival.
“Sam?” He crept along the edge of the pond, keeping low to keep out of sight. “Sammie?”
There was no answer.
There was no sign of her anywhere. No glint of her silver eyes peeking out from the thick grass. No sign of her red hair or her pink dress floating in the center of the pond, the result of an accident or foul play.
He twisted the claddaugh ring around his pinky. He had led the constables to pretty much every inch of the festival grounds, from the entrance to the dunking pond and back to the Dregs. Sammie should have had more than enough time to get here, even in her state of asthma. The thought of water would have pushed her along.
Unless…
Unless Jameson had been too angry to let Sammie go off by herself.
Dammit! Vaughn tore a handful of long grass up from the ground. Why didn’t he think about that? How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought of himself and not her? If Jameson went off on her, she wouldn’t have the strength to fight back.
He thought he was doing her good by leaving. That, without him there to be threatened, Sammie would have an easier time not making the Lord High Sheriff mad. That it would keep her safe.
She had told him to run, too. Not for her sake, but for his.
And that would give Jameson all the more reason to punish her. He’d proved too sadistic to have any compassion left for his betrothed. His character, when Jameson was nothing more than a character in Johnny’s head, was obsessively in love with his Anne.
Did he have Sammie away from the public eye? Was he keeping her prisoner? Was he keeping her away so that he could beat her without ruining his precious image? What he was capable of... It was unimaginable. How little Sammie could take...
“I have to find her.” But not as he was. He didn’t even have to look in the pond to know how he looked. Mud covered. Half naked. He had run from constables twice, the last time through the entire festival. Everybody at festival knew who he was. They knew he was wanted. By now the constables or the town crier would have spread word of some imagined crime, and his Puck would be seen as a rapist or murderer. Or worse.
The water in the pond was refreshingly cool against the heat of the day. He scrubbed the mud from every bit of his skin. He held his breath and submerged himself to scrub his face and hair clean.
The mud was dealt with. Now to deal with the rest of his costume. A clean person in mud beggar breeches was still a mud beggar. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. Where could he get some clothes? He peaked back into the festival.
Nobles lingered in the Lover’s Bridge. Forarin and Kaiser scared children on the Dregs Road. But the Grotto seemed strangely empty. That would be the safer road.
It would also lead him close to the gypsy. She’d told Sammie that morning that her life would change. Maybe the gypsy knew what happened. And how the hell to fix things.
At the very least, maybe she knew where Sammie was.
The road would not be safe, even in the Grotto and Gypsy Way, until he changed his clothes. He moved beyond the boundaries of the festival, hiding where he could, sprinting to the next hiding place when the coast was clear. He circled around the back of the glass blower, feeling the blast of heat from his always burning kiln. He ended up behind the tents of the Gypsy Way.
There was no tall grass to hide in behind the tents. There was nothing to keep him from being seen if he wasn’t careful, or if he lingered too long in a gap between tents. It was hide and dash, hide and dash, until he saw the gypsy’s faded tent.
Behind the tent, laid out as if it were waiting just for him, was a simple outfit. Plain black boots, black breeches, and a black silky shirt with puffed sleeves. It was simple.
But it would be perfect.
Vaughn looked around for any sign of the person who had left the clothes. A naked noble hiding in the grass Vaughn had just left. A secret gift giver, sneaking looks behind the tents to see that their present was well received. The gypsy, even, and her all-knowing, steely stare.
But there was nobody in sight.
He smiled. At least he wouldn’t have to steal something now.
Vaughn swapped out his worn breeches for these nice, soft, clean breeches. Black was never an ideal color to wear in the summer, but he was already more comfortable than he’d been. The boots were soft, the souls padded for comfort. He reached for the shirt.
“What the hell?” He would have missed it if it hadn’t landed on his legs. A piece of parchment had fallen from the confines of the shirt. He unfolded it.
Scrawled across the aged paper were flowing, almost mystically printed lines of writing.
“She doth lie near the dragon den. Find thee timely safety in the forest of Sherwood. Make thee haste now into the den of danger. What air lingers shalt not remain. T.”
It was a riddle.
“She doth lie near the dragon den,” Vaughn read quietly. There was an actual dragon at the festival. It was a large, wooden ride fitting half a dozen people, and it swung back and forth under the power of half a dozen workers.
“She doth lie near…” The break room was near the dragon ride. They were right across the path from each other. Relief washed over him. Whether or not Sammie was there… It was a good starting point, at least.
He went through each line until he knew exactly what it meant. The forest of Sherwood was easy. All the festival maps listed the parking lot as Sherwood Forest. After he found Sammie, they would go there.
The den of danger could mean a few things. It could have meant the upper levels of the faire, which seemed to have turned solely into the land of the nobility. There would be no friends there, for him or Sammie. It was a place of danger to the both of them.
It was, he hoped, where Sammie was.
“What air lingers shalt not remain.” He stared at the line for a full thirty seconds.
Then he realized what it meant. “Shit!” He stuffed the note into his waistband and threw the shirt over his head. Then he walked out onto the path. There was no time to wait for an opening. There was no time to fear getting caught. He had to get to the upper level of the faire, and he had to get there now.
His gifted outfit had been carefully planned. The nobles on the lower levels avoided him, and he heard the whispers of “pirate” around him. The constables, who had chased him through every inch of the grounds, pushed by him with no notice on the Hill Street, in a hurry to restart their search for him. It would seem, by
the black eyes that the two men sported, that they were even more determined to catch Vaughn now.
The nobles on the upper levels ignored him as if he were a lower level noble, not worthy of their important attention. He reached sight of the building with no resistance.
But getting by the armed guard, standing in front of the door with his hand on the hilt of his sword, would not be as easy as fooling absent minded nobles.
“What do I do?” He had to get inside as soon as he could. But he had to do it without the Lord High Sheriff finding out. He looked around. There had to be something he could work with. Something that would give him that one, winning idea.
He was near a food stand. It could work.
He wasn’t about to wait in line. He slipped around the back of the building. A window was open, leading down into a kitchen. A kitchen that, for the time being, was surprisingly empty.
He slid inside. On the counter was a rough hunk of bread and a tin cup filled with what looked like birch beer. Both sat on the corner nearest to him. As if they were set aside just for him.
Vaughn smiled. At last things were going his way.
As quickly as he slipped in, he slipped back out, balancing the bread and drink on the precarious sill as he hoisted himself back outside. He grabbed the cup carefully. He didn’t care if the bread fell, but every drop of drink was precious.
With props in hand, he stood to his full five foot eleven height, and walked with confidence to the guard.
The guard had his hand on Vaughn’s chest before Vaughn could say anything. “My apologies, my Lord,” the guard said. “The Lord High Sheriff hath ordered no one shalt see the Lady Halloway.”
Vaughn stood up straighter. He knew how to play nobility. He had joined the festival as an older High Sheriff’s son, before Johnny joined and Vaughn took the more fun role of a mud beggar. “The Lord High Sheriff hath sent me to deliver to his betrothed a simple meal of bread and ale.”
The guard raised an eyebrow. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
“Doth thou doubt mine orders from the Lord High Sheriff?” Vaughn asked, raising his voice. “Shouldst I tell the Lord High Sheriff that his betrothed be denied nourishment in her most sickly state?”
The guard considered Vaughn, staring at the loaf of bread and the cup.
He tried not to shake, not to give the man any reason to doubt his story. The seconds passed. Seconds became minutes.
He loosened his grip on the bread. It would be the first to go if he had to fight his way inside.
At last the guard moved to the side. His hand had left his sword. “Aye, my Lord. You may bring the Lady Halloway her meal, but I pray you do not linger. The Lord High Sheriff shalt have both our heads on pikes if he shouldst discover you in private with his betrothed.”
Vaughn nodded curtly and marched inside. Hopefully he looked frustrated at the man’s impudence at not letting him pass immediately. Hopefully that would buy him more time inside.
The door clicked closed behind him. He bounded up the stairs two at a time.
The heat punched him before he saw the door. The wave of heat that hit him as he opened the door nearly brought him to his knees. How long had Sammie been in here? There was no way that she could…
He rushed inside. The break room had turned into a bedroom, but he didn’t linger on the thought. It was just another weird thing to happen on this weird day.
Sammie lay on the bed as if she’d fallen backwards onto it. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t making a sound.
He dropped the bread and drink on the table. He looked at her stomach. He looked for the familiar rising and falling that meant that she was breathing. The movement was there. But only barely.
“Sam? Sammie?” He put two fingers on her neck. Her heart was beating too fast. Too fast and too shallowly. He put his ear on her chest. Her lungs rattled with each breath.
But the rattling grew fainter with each second.
“Sammie?” He felt her forehead. She was drenched in sweat. She was too hot.
He ran to the wall and threw open the window. The breeze was slight, heavily tinged with the incessant heat plaguing the room. But it would move the air.
He went back to the table. The basin was filled with water. Sammie must have missed it otherwise she’d have cooled herself down. He dipped a cloth in the water and set it, dripping heavily, onto Sammie’s forehead.
She reacted to the cold water. It was a good sign.
He needed to make her cooler.
He tore off her long, draping sleeves. There was a weak spot in the fabric of her skirt, just above her knees, and he tore at it until she was in a short summer dress. He soaked the cloth again, and wiped down her arms and legs.
He kept working, cooling down her arms and legs, the exposed parts of her chest, until the basin was empty. The rising and falling of her chest grew. Each time he checked her pulse, it was stronger.
She was coming back.
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Drowning…
She drowned. Cool wetness dripped down her limbs. Penetrated her chest.
Better this way… than dying of heat. Heat pressed on her chest… Deadweight of iron.
Drowning… made her feel light.
Light pierced the enveloping darkness. Whispers in the dark… Any time now.
“Sam? Sammie? Come on, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”
Darkness evaporated into dusty light. The heat was heavy, touched by a breeze.
She eased her eyes open. She was still in the bedroom. She hadn’t died. This wasn’t her heaven. Unless she’d been sent to hell.
She heard her name again. Her real name. “Sammie, sweetie, can you hear me?”
“Vaughn?” Her voice crackled. Mean breaths ravaged her aching lungs.
His face appeared in her line of sight. “Hey,” he whispered. A wavering smile matched tears polishing his eyes. “Welcome back. You had me scared there for a bit.”
Welcome back? Scared? “What happened?” She tried to sit up. Vaughn helped her, pulling her into a sitting position against the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed. She went to wipe sweat from her arms.
Where were her sleeves? Where was the bottom of her skirt, for that matter? Hundreds of threads lined the length of her new hemlines. What was left of her dress was soaked. So was her hair. “What happened, Vaughn?” she asked again.
“You passed out from the heat. I had to get you cooled down.” Vaughn sat crossed legged in front of her.
She tested her breathing. It wasn’t good, but it was livable. “Well,” she said slowly. “I’m glad I shaved my legs.” Vaughn chuckled. He was dressed all in black. “What are you dressed as?” she asked.
Vaughn smiled. His smile was healing. “The peasants think I’m a pirate. The nobles think I’m one of them.” He reached for the table and returned with a mug. “Drink up. We should get out of here.”
She drank the contents with one great gulp. She didn’t know if she’d drank birch beer or turnip juice, and she didn’t care. She felt like she’s travelled through a desert without a drop of water. The cold liquid felt good, and her lungs thanked her for every ounce.
Another thought came to her, as she rested the cup in her lap. A horrible memory, from before the darkness. “Where’s Johnny?” she asked, eyeing the door. He could burst in at any second. He could burst in and take her air away from her permanently.
“I don’t know. Somewhere seething because I lost his constables.” His laugh was cut off. He grabbed her face and turned it to the side. “Jesus, Sam. What in the blazes happened?”
She knew what he saw. Her cheek still stung. It must have gone red. Tears flooded her eyes. She took a shaky breath. “Even now… I never thought he’d hit me.”
“Johnny hit you?”
She nodded. The tears overtook her. She was too tired to fight them. Her mind was too tired to try to pull herself together, or to tell her that things were going to be okay.
Things weren’t going t
o be okay.
Vaughn wrapped her in his arms. At least for now, she was safe again.
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The situation was getting dangerous.
It was one thing for the Lord High Bastard to want Vaughn dead. But to hit his own fiancé, his own betrothed, so hard that her cheek was turning a violent shade of purple… If Jameson could hit Sammie so hard, what else could he do to her if his uncontrollable rage came back to him?
Vaughn didn’t want to imagine. He was sure as hell not going to leave Sammie alone again to find out.
“My Lord? You must away now.” Heavy footsteps pounded each stair like thunder in the narrow stairwell.
“Shit!” Vaughn had forgotten about the guard. He didn’t know how long he’d been here. Long enough, though, for the guard to get worried. He pulled Sammie off the bed. Thankfully she was steady on her feet. “Do you think you can run?”
She nodded. “What’s going on, Vaughn?”
The door knob vibrated.
“When I tell you to, run. There’s a path near the maze that leads to the parking lot. Don’t stop till you get there, and don’t wait for me.”
“Vaughn?” Fear tainted her voice.
He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“My Lord? My Lady? I shalt enter.”
The door flew open. The guard was a brick wall in front of the doorway. He’d be impossible to get around.
He eyed the two of them. Their interlocked hands. Sammie’s scandalously bare arms and legs, the torn remnants of her gown on the edge of the bed. “The Lord High Sheriff shalt hear him about this!” He turned, pulling a key from somewhere in his clothes. He was going to lock them in.
Vaughn dropped Sammie’s hand. He took a step forward, and hit the man as hard as he could.
The guard stood for a second, shock twisting his face. Then he crumpled to the ground like a sack of bricks.
Vaughn shook his tingling hand. He turned to Sammie. “Run.”
She bolted, hurdling over the unconscious man. Vaughn followed her.
He had to give Sammie credit. She didn’t hesitate at the door leading outside. Instead she burst through it with an explosion of energy. No one tried to stop them as they dodged stages and games and rides.
A Midsummer's Day Page 9