From the moment I woke up to the sound of Michael humming a lilting tune, I knew it was going to be a fantastic day. I padded to the kitchen bleary-eyed but smiling, straight into Michael’s waiting arms beside the coffee machine.

  Spirits were high – none higher than his. Michael lived for Ren Faire and had driven us to every thrift store within ten miles, laughing as we argued over belts and laces for our outfits.

  Days earlier at Antun’s, he’d led us into his expanded basement – a museum of centuries-old clutter any curator would die for. He lifted a weathered leather satchel and draped it over my shoulder and across my chest. The leather was soft, brass-buckled, and faintly smelled of old parchment.

  “This is just a messenger bag, right?” he’d said. “Seventeenth century. Carried treaties once; now it’ll carry snacks.”

  I stared, stunned. A four-hundred-year-old bag on my very accident-prone shoulder.

  A hand landed there – Antun’s, gentle and amused. “Take it or it’s going in the bin to make space.”

  “I’ll take it!” I hugged him hard.

  He laughed. “And don’t worry, I’m not stingy – you can still borrow other things.”

  Then he turned to Syla. “For you, my dear, something special.” From a trunk, he drew out a long, embroidered vest, deep indigo trimmed in gold. “Dubrovnik, 1600s. I thought of it the moment Michael mentioned the Faire. Scholar-apothecary suits you.”

  My mind came back to the present when Michael unwrapped his arms from around me to pour himself a cup of fresh brew. I couldn’t help but smile at the memory of it, more excited for this than I was letting on.

  “I can’t wait to see what you all look like in your costumes, this is going to be epic!” Michael was nearly bouncing and the caffeine hadn’t even hit.

  I raised a brow. He grinned wider. I cracked a grin of my own – his energy was contagious. It made me excited for eternity.

  “Everyone ready for our cultural field trip?” Antun asked, rounding the corner already dressed as a monk – brown wool robe, braided belt, pouches at his waist, one definitely full of jellybeans for trinket trades. Syla trailed behind him, rubbing her eyes.

  “After Breakfast, we get ready to go,” Antun said.

  “Breakfast at 3:00AM might be normal for us,” Syla yawned, “but I could’ve used another hour.”

  “You can nap in the car,” I offered, handing her a mug of tea that Michael had prepared. She smiled softly in thanks.

  “If you can sleep through my riveting trivia,” Michael warned.

  I snorted, nearly making a mess of my coffee on my shirt. We each prepared our own meals then, taking them to the table to eat.

  After breakfast, Syla and I vanished upstairs – because hair takes forever – and dressed in our finished outfits. When we came back down, everyone was ready: Michael gleaming in custom faux armor and bracers; Antun serene in his monk’s robe.

  We piled into the car. Antun drove; Michael claimed shotgun by height; Syla and I took the back. She watched the dark city roll by while Michael began his trivia barrage like some bardic Bob Barker.

  “Did you know people in medieval times hardly ever bathed?” he began.

  “Actually, that is a common misconception,” Antun began. “While the past might not have been as pleasantly fragrant as the present, there were still public bathhouses and rosewater basins.”

  “So that explains why your skin’s so good,” Michael intoned.

  Antun did a mock bow over the steering wheel. “Five centuries of exfoliation will do a thing or two.”

  Michael tapped a finger on his chin. “Well, did you know that forks weren’t common in England until the late 1500s?”

  “That tracks,” Antun said. “I don’t know about England specifically, didn’t get there myself until the 1700s, but I remember the first time someone brought a fork into the monastery during a banquet. They said it was for saints too delicate to sin with their hands.”

  “I’m starting to believe you were there,” I teased.

  He smiled in the rearview mirror. “And I still prefer spoons.”

  Michael launched into another fact, but my attention went to Syla, still staring out the window. I touched her shoulder and she jumped. “Sorry! You okay, Sy?”

  She blinked, then smiled faintly. “I used to have friends who called me that – before Nikola, back at the speakeasy. They’re long gone but hearing it just now brought them back for a second. You may keep calling me that.”

  I smiled softly back at her. “I’m glad it’s a happy memory,” I said. “But really – are you okay?”

  “Just nervous,” she admitted. “Having fun is… foreign. I used to be outgoing. Maybe today will be practice.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap, thumb brushing the embroidery on her vest.

  “I think you’ll have a lot of fun,” I reassured her.

  “Hey ladies, should we get turkey legs – authentic Tudor food?” Michael asked with a side-eye at the driver.

  Antun shook his head. “I told you before, turkeys are New World birds. Medieval Europe had swans. Less grease, more arrogance.”

  “So you’re saying the original Faire food was just worse KFC?” Michael asked.

  “KFC never hissed before you roasted it.” An image of an angry swan chasing after a hungry Michael and Antun made me giggle inside.

  Syla smiled at their banter; I smiled at her, relieved to see it on her face. She nodded toward Michael. “That armor looks much more comfortable than the real thing.”

  “There are many kinds of armor, and the mix of hauberk and plate armor you’re probably picturing would be hell to wear to this,” Michael said.

  Antun added, “Real knights rarely wore it outside tournaments. Too heavy to pee in, too expensive to die in.”

  “Can we not talk about peeing before we arrive?” Syla groaned, crossing her legs.

  I smiled until my bladder agreed. “Seconded.”

  Antun pulled into a rest stop. By the time Syla and I returned, the men were debating something else entirely. I opened the door just in time to hear Michael proclaim, “Behold, yee olde tavern of merriment—”

  Without looking up from his phone, Antun said, “It’s the, not yee. The ‘y’ was a thorn, old English letter for ‘th.’”

  “You just can’t let a man have his flourish, can you?”

  Smiling, Antun said, “Not when it’s historically illiterate.”

  Dryly, I interjected, “You’ve both been editing too long.”

  Michael proclaimed, “I live for the day he lets me have one sentence unmarked in red.”

  “Then write one worth keeping,” Antun jabbed.

  “Just as well you don’t work at the office with us,” Michael nodded at him, crossing his arms in feigned annoyance.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Syla murmured, “And this is why I mute the group chat.”

  All of us burst into laughter – Syla looking secretly proud of her own joke as she smiled.

  We arrived at the Faire, a light drizzle sprinkling the areas that weren’t covered by trees or tents. The parking lot was chaos – people putting last-minute pieces of their costumes on, others laughing as they ran through the rain to get to the line. I was grateful for the hooded wool cloak that Antun had let me borrow, keeping me and my costume nice and dry. The costume was fairly simple – a flowy green skirt and a top with simple stays. Syla grabbed an umbrella out of the trunk, but both men insisted they’d be fine without it. I think they just wanted to make sure there was enough room under the tiny umbrella at all for her. My nerves were fully aware that for as much people watching as I did here, people were watching me back.

  “You look great! Everyone’s staring,” Michael said as he gave me a side hug.

  “Exactly my nightmare scenario. Thanks,” I responded dryly.

  He laughed and squeezed my side, making me squeal and squirm.

  “You turd!” I hissed through smiling teeth, smacking his arm lightly. “If people weren’t looking before, they are now.”

  “You’re welcome,” Michael sing-songed before kissing my cheek, making me blush at the open intimacy. Secretly though, I loved it.

  From behind me, I heard Antun chanting like an actual monk before making a cross in front of the car. “Just blessing for luck,” he said with a wink before clicking the lock button on his key fob.

  Syla fiddled and adjusted her various pouches and vials on her belt. “We could still turn back,” she whispered, too quiet for normal ears, but our vampiric hearing caught it.

  Antun took her hand in his, smiled kindly, and said in his sweetest voice, “Not a chance.” He pulled her along before she could protest, making her gasp a laugh. We followed behind, finding our way to the line to wait for opening.

  While waiting, Syla glanced around, amazed at all the costumes. I heard a gasp and followed her line of sight – a mushroom cap fairy, staying dry under their toadstool hat. She smiled a tiny, nervous smile that let me know that she was enjoying things, even if she was scared shitless right now.

  Michael’s joy went up a notch when he busted out the Shakespearean speak. “Hark! Yonder sun approacheth, clocketh the ninth hour!”

  Syla giggled at his ridiculousness.

  “Approacheth? Clocketh?” I said, unable to keep a straight face.

  “We call that ‘morning,’ Michael,” Antun coached. “But good try.”

  The line began to move as the gates opened and ticket takers began to stamp peoples’ hands as they went into the Faire. I was almost surprised Michael didn’t squeal like a fangirl at the motion, but his loud “Huzzah!” was echoed down the line by everyone else, all excited to see what this year’s Faire had in store. By the time we got to the front of the line, Antun had “blessed” everyone in line around us, all very grateful for the coming luck and fortune.

  I had simply been taking everything in; all the costumes, the positive energy. Last year’s Faire had been my first and last as a mortal, but I was glad that this year I got to come again with more friends. We were on a mission last year. This year was all about having fun. It was louder in every sense of the word as a vampire. And this year, I could hear heartbeats. It was an explosion of color, scent, and sound – roasted meat, leather, hay, fiddle music, chatter.

  The sensory flood had overwhelmed Syla; she froze, eyes scanning the exits as if she needed to know the quickest escape route. Antun softly linked arms with her, steering without fuss off to the side of main path where it was less congested.

  “It was really overwhelming for me too the first time I came,” I told her as we followed them off to the side. “It was just last year, when Michael and I found Antun.”.

  “Stalked was more like it, but I don’t mind. All turned out well in the end,” Antun quipped.

  I shook my head but couldn’t help smiling.

  Michael was thriving. “Verily, I hath hunger most grievous for yon turkey leg!”

  Antun snorted, “Verily, you ‘hath’ nothing – wrong verb.”

  “Hey, it’s the vibe that counts,” Michael argued.

  Antun responded, “Only if the vibe is linguistic decay.”

  In mock offense, Michael started, “Oh, fine, fine. You want accuracy?” He straightened, looking every part the chivalrous warrior now. His tone dropped into rich, sonorous cadence – suddenly crisp and confident. “Good gentles all, pray lend your ears a moment: we embark upon a journey most noble – to revel, to feast, and perchance to misbehave, all beneath the kindly gaze of sun and mead alike.”

  Our group went silent. I – for one – had never heard him talk like that before, and it did things to my insides, things that made me blush. I was the first to break the silence. “… You’ve been holding out on us,” I said, a wicked gleam in my eye as I looked at him.

  His smirk returning, Michael said, “Lo, the editor awaketh, and his grammar is mighty.”

  Our group still said nothing.

  He continued, “I know how to talk. I choose to be silly. I live for Ren Faire, you think I wouldn’t have learned by now?”

  Antun grinned, quietly impressed. “Then you are not a fool. Merely a heretic of diction.”

  “Worse,” I said. “He’s right.”

  Syla put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell him that. His ego’s already jousting.”

  Michael bowed deeply to emphasize Syla’s point, making all of us laugh. “Come on. In modern speak, I’m hungry.”

  We got a massive 2 massive turkey legs, candied almonds, and kettle corn, settling in for a slow, gentle entry to the Ren Faire. Michael had also bought a loaf of… something. “That’s authentic Tudor bread!” he insisted.

  “So is the dental risk,” I said, taking it and knocking it on the table. That got a laugh. As it died down, I continued, “This is nice though. For once, the weird belongs.”

  Michael’s eyes softened. “Yeah, it is.”

  After a few minutes more, the turkey legs gone and the remainder of snacks stowed in my very old leather satchel, we drifted into the booths. Jewelry, weapons, games. At one point, Michael grabbed my hand and rushed us over to an archery range. Antun and Syla followed to watch.

  I pulled back the string, let it go… and the arrow didn’t make it halfway to the target. I felt the blush creeping before I heard Antun snigger.

  “Love, you let the string go a little slack before you released. Pull like you’re plucking.”

  I did as he said, and it made it farther but nowhere near any target, let alone the one I aimed for.

  “It’s alright, Darling. Firearms are more my speed too,” Syla assured. We all looked at her – the gentle one – who said guns were what? “What?” she defended. “Speakeasy, remember. Someone had to supply it.”

  After another moment of shock, we all burst into laughter, unable to imagine soft-spoken Syla wielding a Tommy gun or the like. She gave another smile, a little bigger than the last one.

  Michael took a turn, pulling back the bowstring far easier than I did. He released the arrow, and it hit the furthest edge of the target.

  “Ha! The nuns who raised me could shoot better than that,” Antun ribbed.

  “Mock me not, good sire, for folly is the coin with which the wise oft buy delight,” Michael countered.

  Antun bowed in acquiescence, laughing in agreement.

  Michael turned to me, bowing low. “Milady Editor of Manuscripts.” The title surprised a laugh out of me as he continued, “Ah – there is the sun I sought, and she wears a crown of dimples.” Before I could blush, he stood straight again. “I saw an herbalist tent just this way I think our apothecary and resident tea-expert would love to visit.” Taking my hand in his without any reservation, he pulled me along.

  I laughed as I followed behind him, having to take long strides to keep up. The scent hit me before the tent was in sight – lavender, lemon balm, licorice root. Syla lit up as the scent hit her too. She stared in awe around the tent, set up with shelves upon shelves of jars of different herbs. Some were already pre-mixed and ready to go, touting the benefits of the ingredients within.

  The herbalist was a thin woman, her white hair half-down, twisted back with a clip shaped like a leaf, a thin stick driving through the center of it. “Welcome,” her gentle voice said. I could imagine her living in a little woodland cottage, tending to her herbs in her garden with a voice that kind. She wore an apron over her outfit as if she was ready to mix herbs there in the tent. “How can I help you?”

  “We came for our apothecary, you see,” Antun said in character. “She is in need of restocking.”

  “Ah, then you’ve come to the right place,” she said with an answering grin. “What is your name, apothecary?”

  Syla looked a surprised to be put on the spot, but she responded, “I’m Syla.”

  “Well, Syla, how can I help you today? I’ve got herbs for everything from tinctures to teas.”

  I had to admit that I was a bit preoccupied with looking at the space and didn’t hear most of what Syla and the herbalist talked about. But every so often, I’d turn my head and catch Syla lit up and talking animatedly about something. She laughed, the sound bright, ringing out clear as a bell. Had I ever heard Syla laugh like that? That completely… free?

  Someone brushed past me and I realized that the outfit I was in wasn’t uncomfortable. The tactile, lived-in feel of the thrifted items helped ground me. Normally, someone brushing past me gave me all the ick from the contact alone, but this time it just… happened, and that was all. No extra inner reaction beyond, huh, this is a very soft shirt. The realization was odd, but not unwelcome.

  “Excuse me, Father?” I heard behind me. I looked and saw a little boy pulling on Antun’s robe.

  Antun looked down at him. “How can I help you, young man?”

  The boy couldn’t have been more than six. He looked back and I saw his parents, waving their encouragement. He turned back to Antun and held out a wooden coin. “I’d like to pay for absolution.” He said the last word slowly, like he was trying to make sure he got it right.

  My heart was melting but Antun stayed in character. “Thank you young man. A moment before we part.” He opened his pouch of jelly beans, shaking a couple out into the boy’s waiting hands. “Here, in penance,” he said with a smile.

  “Wow! Thank you, Father!” The little boy ran back to his parents, fist full of jelly beans raised high to show them.

  “Okay, that was so adorable,” Syla said beside right me. I jumped. She’d surprised me, I thought she was still talking with the herbalist.

  I looped an arm through hers. “It certainly was.”

  Michael leaned over to Antun. “That performance was almost a little too convincing.”

  Antun merely raised a brow. “At least this faith sells sugar, and not salvation.”

  We walked over to a tree and settled under its mossy shade to take a short break. There was a glass-blowing demonstration starting soon that we wanted to catch. Light glinted through the canopy of trees, casting gold and green on the ground below.

  Syla took in a deep breath, her eyes closed, and smiled – a true, full smile. Everything felt so normal, but like the best version of normal. People cheered and laughed, smiles were abundant, and everyone was kind. For the first time in so long, the world felt bright again.

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