„Get lost, Wesley,“ I said.
„Aw, come on,“ he whined. „Is that any way treat your own cousin?“
„He's your cousin?“ Michael asked.
„No,“ I said.
„Yes,“ Wesley said, at the same time.
„Only a distant cousin, and about to become a little more distant – right, Wesley?“ I said, picking up a set of andirons as I spoke. It wasn't meant to be a physical threat, but if Wesley chose to misinterpret it as one….
„I'll stay out of your way; just ignore me,“ Wesley said, sidling a little farther off.
Which meant, no doubt, that Wesley thought he could pick up some dirt hanging around my booth. Or possibly that he knew about the orders my mother had given me to „find poor Wesley a nice story that will keep his editor happy.“ Wesley was a big boy; why was helping him keep his job suddenly my responsibility? I'd taken him on a VIP tour of the festival last night, hoping he'd find something harmless to write about. I'd even shown him the stocks and let him take some pictures of me in them, pictures I knew he'd find a way to misuse sooner or later. What more was I supposed to do? And what had he done to upset Mrs. Waterston?
I peered out again. To my relief, Mrs. Waterston had returned to the town square. Her head was moving slowly, as if she were scanning the lane of booths leading up to ours.
And she was frowning. Maybe she saw something unsatisfactory about our entire row of booths – but no, that was unlikely. This row and the adjoining one were the showplaces, closest to the entrance, where I'd put the best craftspeople with the most authentic colonial costumes and merchandise. I'd kept the weirder stuff toward the back of the fair. More likely she was watching someone walking down the row. Someone who was about to pass my booth, or maybe even enter it….
„Hi, Meg! Has anyone asked for me?“
My brother, Rob.
„No, not yet,“ I said, eyeing him. I couldn't see anything wrong. His blue jacket, waistcoat, and knee breeches fit nicely; his ruffled shirt and long stockings were gleaming white; both his shoes and the buckles on them were freshly polished; his hair was neatly tied back with a black velvet ribbon, and a tricorn hat perched atop his head at a jaunty but far from rakish angle. Not for the first time, I envied the fact that he'd inherited our mother's aristocratic blond beauty.
„Meg?“ he asked. „Is there something wrong? Don't I look okay?“
„You look fine,“ I said. „Help Michael with some of my ironwork.“
„I'm supposed to be meeting someone on business, you know,“ he announced, for about the twentieth time today. „I don't want to get all sweaty.“
„Well, work slowly if you like, but try to look busy.“
„Why?“ he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
„Because Mrs. Waterston is coming this way,“ I said, glancing over my shoulder. „Would you rather help me out or do whatever chore she has in mind for you?“
„Where do you want these?“ Rob asked, snatching up a pair of candlesticks.
„I've got nearly everything out of the crates and boxes,“ Michael said. „I should probably go check on the rest of my regiment.“
„Fine,“ I said. „Rob can help me finish.“
„I'll bring back some lunch,“ he said, leaning down to kiss me. „You'll be here, right?“
„Actually, I'll probably be running up and down all day, keeping the crafters and 'the Anachronism Police' from killing each other,“ I said. „And if things get slow, I need to go down to Faulk's booth for a while.“
„Can't Faulk mind his own booth?“ Michael said, frowning.
„I'm sure he can,“ I said. „But he's supposed to inspect my dagger.“
„Oh, have you finished the dagger?“ Eileen exclaimed. „The one with the falcon handle? Let me see it!“
So, now, of course, I had to show Eileen the dagger. Not that she had to twist my arm too hard – I admit, I was proud of the dagger. Eight months ago, Faulk, the friend who'd introduced me to ironworking when we were in college together, had come back to Virginia after working for the last several years with a world-renowned swordsmith in California. He'd been burning to share what he'd learned about making weapons, and, I confess, I'd caught me bug.
The last couple of months, I'd been working on a dagger, with an intricate ornamental handle and a highly functional steel blade. I'd finished it – at least I hoped it was ready for prime time. But Faulk was the expert. I'd been looking forward for weeks to showing him the dagger.
Eileen oohed and aahed over the dagger so loudly that Amanda came over to see what was going on. Michael, I noticed, was standing aloof, still frowning. I realized, suddenly, that this wasn't the first time over the last few months that he'd shown a certain coolness, even irritation, whenever I'd mentioned my dagger. What was the matter with him, anyway? He didn't seem to feel threatened by my blacksmithing; what was so different about making swords?