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Her heart drilled against her chest as she grabbed the rose and crossed to the lower platform, where the knight waited.
“Um… hey,” she muttered.
His name was Sir Horace, and he had kind, grayish-brown eyes, the color of old driftwood. They squinted in amusement at her stilted greeting, accentuating some of the lines in his brow.
“Great job…” Her hands flapped against the folds of her dress. Twice she almost crushed the delicate petals of the rose she held. “You know, with that stuff you did.”
Everly’s voice was so weak it barely reached her own ears. The crowdhummed impatiently as it waited for fanfare she didn’t know how to deliver. Why hadn’t anyone given her notes? She was on this show because she was terrified of being seen—how was thrusting her into this unprepared supposed to help her?
She bit her lip. Panic shot through her veins, leaving her jittery.
Logan was a few steps to her right, close enough for her to hear him whisper, “You need to play this up.”
“Great. Thanks for the advice,” she hissed. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the rose, which thankfully had no thorns, until it snapped in her grip.
Where was that cartoon coyote to saw a hole around her and let her fall through the stage?
Sir Horace cleared his throat. “My lady,” he called out, clearly trying to help, “I am humbled by the honor of your gift.” He bowed his head and raised his hands, palms flat, ready to receive his winnings.
Everly’s arm locked at her side. The rose felt like the only thing tethering her to reality. If she let it go, she’d float away, or worse, burst into tears.
Logan started up again. “You’ve got those romance novels in your apartment with the knights on the cover.”
She shot him a glare, with no care for the fourth wall and how much she’d demolished it. “Now is not really the time for you to judge my choice of books.”
“What would one of the ladies from those things say in this moment?” There was no derision in his voice or on his face. His eyebrows were doing that thing with the center crease that made him look worried.
Everly thought ofThe Wayward Queen,sitting half-read on her nightstand. There was in fact a moment like this, where Queen Eleanor was forced to honor a knight from a nearby kingdom, even though he wasn’t the man she loved.
She did her best to remember the queen’s speech as she faced Sir Horace.
“Your prowess is without rival, good knight. The truest champion has won the day.” Everly spoke as loudly as she could, then placed the broken rose in the knight’s hands. Its practically decapitated top hung off his palm, raining red petals onto the dirt. Though she wanted to grimace and apologize, then fold in on herself until she vanished, Everly said nothing, only tipped her chin up the way Eleanor would in times of strife.
A storm of applause followed, and with a deep bow, Horace tucked the pathetic flower into his tabard and rode off.
On her way back up the stairs, Everly snuck a glance at Logan. Their eyes locked. There was a glimmer of something bright in his irises.
By the time they left the tournament two hours later, the faire was bustling with activity.
All the shows were in full swing. They passed fire-breathers, laundry wenches, fortune-tellers, animal acts. Patrons gathered everywhere there was space, and the air brimmed with music and laughter and voices hawking wares. More than one person yelled “huzzah” as they wandered by.
Though she’d been in the shade for most of the day, Everly was covered in sweat and exhausted from carrying around the extra weight of her costume’s many fabrics and layers. She would have loved nothing more than to find some air-conditioning, but Stanton had something planned at the body art tent and was herding them along at a rapid pace.
In such a big crowd, Logan couldn’t really film, so he’d fallen into step next to Everly. Thanks to his quick thinking, the rest of the jousting tournament had gone more smoothly than she could have hoped. She’d borrowed as much dialogue as she could remember fromThe WaywardQueen,and everyone had seemed impressed by her role-playing. The last knight—Sir Christian—really got into character, and instead of taking the ring she offered, begged her to run away with him, pressing a slow, warm kiss to her palm. As his mouth had met her skin, a rock had tumbled by and tapped his horse’s leg, startling it and almost throwing Christian to the ground. When she’d looked behind her to see where it had come from, she would have sworn a satisfied smirk lurked under Logan’s beard.
Now she turned to him, not sure what to say. Part of her wanted to show gratitude for his help, but she was also really curious about that rock.
He nodded to a turkey vendor ahead of them. “Look at these two.”
There was a couple standing at the booth. She was plus-size and petite, wearing a long floral maxi dress and a flower crown atop a sea of long brown waves. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she argued with the vendor, something about turkeys not being eaten in Europe until the sixteenth century. The guy beside her burst into a laugh that sounded more like geese screaming. He was wearing legitimate plate armor, but it was clearly too small for his tall, super-thin frame, and he had the whole thing duct-taped to his jeans and cardigan. His maroon glasses held up the visor of his helmet so he could see.
“That’s a look,” Logan said.
“A choice, indeed,” she echoed. “I’m surprised you’re not filming them for the B-roll.”
“They’d have to sign waivers. Too much work.”
Everly watched them wistfully until they were out of sight. Neither one seemed embarrassed about his unusual ensemble. That was what she wanted. To be completely and authentically herself again, no matter who was watching.
