“I’m only racing to get past you, my dear muckspouting mumblecrust.” I curtsy as I say it.
Wallace catches the balls and bows slightly to me. “Well played, Wench! Would you care to stay and exchange a few more choice words?”
I curtsy again at him. “Alas, my good Fool, I cannot.”
“Go forth, and Godspeed!” He bows again and goes back to juggling.
I grin as I walk through the Great Hall, taking it all in. Despite my argument with Len, I really love the Castle. Which is why I’ve not left it for another job, even after years of laboring within a deeply flawed system.
The air smells like cheap beer, roasted meats, and too many bodies in too small a space. At least we get that part of the Middle Ages right. People back then loved their fairs and feasts, and despite being built on a foundation of illusion, here at the Castle we do a pretty good approximation of the loud, boisterous, excitement-in-the-air feeling those events must’ve held. In the Middle Ages, feasts, tournaments, and fairs were smelly, riotous, much-needed escapes for people whose lives were mostly toil, suffering, lice, and early death. So, when you got a break, you danced, laughed, and drank yourself stupid. You fought and did … other things.
We’re a family-friendly place, so we (try to) limit the amount of drinks you can have, and as for the other things … well, the Castle staff does enough of those for all of us. But the giddy sense of abandon and fun we market, package, and sell at the Castle is one of my favorite parts of this job. So, despite the noise, my missing brother, and my need to find Layla and give her a come-to-Jesus about not ever dating Eric, I laugh in delight as I watch a tiny kid waving a light-up sword as he jumps up and down, looking for the King.
For a moment, it’s ten years ago. I’m seven and clinging to my dad’s hand as he brings us here for the first time. His brother, Len, had just gotten a job at the Castle. Chris and I couldn’t wait to go. Back then, on the first night, it was just me, Dad, and Chris, all of us stunned by the epicness of the Castle. He bought a sword for Chris and a flower crown for me. I felt like a princess but secretly wanted a sword too.
“Excuse me.” Someone touches my shoulder, dragging me back into the present. “Could you take a picture with us?”
“I’m not really a—”
Before I can protest that I’m just a Serving Wench, I’m shoved into a family photo. A skinny woman clutching a terrified-looking girl child digs her nails into my forearm, pushing through the thick fabric of my costume.
“Say ‘Middle Ages,’” calls her husband, a round man in a yellow polo shirt and athletic shorts, whose paper crown is balanced precariously on his bald head.
I grin, the shutter clicks, and the woman releases my arm.
“You should go meet the Princess.” I point toward the back of the Great Hall, where Jessica stands in a shiny gown, a smile plastered on her face.
The girl’s face lights up and her mom shoots me a grateful look. They don’t need to know Jessica’s a royal bitch who just broke up with Chris after a year of dating so she could go out with the Green Knight, who’s richer than a lord in real life. No need to spoil the beautiful dream of Princess Jessica.
I smile back at the girl. “Have fun.”
She squeals happily and pulls her mother and father away.
“Nicely done, Sweetly,” says a voice from behind me. I turn around and see Jett, my second-best friend at the Castle.
He’s wearing the purple-and-silver tunic that marks him as part of the King’s court, and a golden trumpet rests on his shoulder. But his hipster haircut and sneakers place him firmly in this century.
“Oh God, it’s good to see you,” I say, leaning into his shoulder for a quick hug. “How’s your night going?”
He shrugs and slings an arm across my shoulder, hugging me back. “Pretty good so far. Len’s raging because you want to be a Knight, but I haven’t had any tourists ask me yet why there’s a brown guy in the King’s Court.”
Jett’s dad is a physicist from India, and his mom’s an anthropology professor from Russia. Predictably, with parents like that, Jett’s smart, funny, and ridiculously gorgeous. In fact, at this very moment, a pack of girls our age is openly staring at him, each of them looking like they can’t find the courage to say hello.
Jett and I have known each other since the start of freshman year. In that time, we’ve developed a few Unbreakable Rules: (1) Never speak about that time sophomore year when I tried to take us on a shortcut through the country and his car ended up in the middle of a farmer’s field surrounded by angry cows; (2) we always pay for our own food and movies because (3) friends don’t date friends because if it all falls apart, then everybody loses.
Both of us learned that lesson the hard way when Layla dated Jett’s best guy friend a few years ago. After they broke up, our friend circle imploded as he found “cooler” friends and demanded that Jett choose between him and us. After that mess, Jett and I decided we liked each other far too much to ever date.
Which, if I’m being honest, seems like less and less of a great idea every time Jett and I are alone together lately. At least from where I’m standing. But I’m pretty sure he’s okay with staying friends forever. I’ll probably end up best woman at his wedding or something.
Ugh.
Pushing that depressing thought and all notions of how good Jett smells tonight—did he get new shampoo?—way down, I focus on what he’s just said. Right. Stupid tourists who think there were only white people around in the Middle Ages.
“Next time someone asks you that, send them my way,” I reply. “I’ll cram some real history through their thick skulls.”
“You’re my hero,” says Jett with a smile. “Hey, did you get through the math homework?”
“It’s Friday night.” I quirk an eyebrow at him. “You know that, right?”
Jett laughs. “I know, but I like to get a head start on these things.”
“Next week is spring break. Why would I do my homework now?”
“So you won’t have it hanging over your head over break?”
“Spoken like a true nerd.” I laugh with him. “I haven’t even looked at it. I got home and then pretty much had to catch the bus to come here.”
A frown creases Jett’s forehead. “Where’s your brother? Why didn’t he give you a ride?”
“That’s the million-gold-pieces question. I’ve been looking for him, which is why I need to find Layla… .”
“She’s stuck behind the registers over in admissions,” says Jett. Another trumpet blast rings through the loudspeakers, and Jett and I jump. Our hands brush for a moment. It’s a feather of a touch, but it sends heat throughout my body.
Good grief. There’s a washerwoman in my stomach, twisting it into knots.
I squeeze his hand once in a hey-best-friend-glad-we’reclose-but-remember-our-rule-about-not-dating-each-other kind of way, then let go.
“Want to get coffee after the show?” he asks, as he slips his hands into his pockets. He sounds totally unfazed by our hand contact. Which makes sense, since he’s the one who suggested the Unbreakable Rules in the first place. “Promise we won’t talk about math homework.”