saying 'Good morrow, mistress.' I no longer gaped when I saw whole families in period costume, down to the toddlers and infants. I rejoiced when someone pulled out a book, pointed to some bit of antique hardware, and asked, eagerly, if I could possibly make something like it.
I was writing up the details of one such commission when I felt someone hovering at my elbow.
'I'll be with you in a moment, sir,' I said over my shoulder.
'Promises, promises,' came Michael's voice. 'I was looking for Rob, actually.'
'Rob?' I said, turning around. 'I caught him trying to do a puppet show with a couple of my flamingos and chased him out to run errands.'
'Flamingos?' Michael said, and his puzzled look reminded me that I'd so far avoided telling him about the ghastly birds. 'What flamingos?'
'I'll fill you in later,' I said, wincing. 'What did you need Rob for, anyway?'
'This is Roger Benson,' Michael said, introducing a middle-aged man, about my height, wearing modern clothes and a bemused look. 'The softwarecompany guy. He's been wandering around seeing the sights. I ran into him over in the encampment, asking directions to your booth.'
'Quite a shindig you have here,' Benson said, glancing around. 'Very profitable, I suppose.'
'Well, I hope the crafters are going to do well,' I said. 'I don't think the organizing committee is looking for a profit – they're not charging admission, of course, and any proceeds from the concessions are going to the local historical society.'
'Still, it promotes tourism, doesn't it,' he said. 'Big industry around here.'
Yes, it was, but he'd struck a sour note somehow. Of course I was hoping to make a tidy profit for the weekend. But still, how could someone walk from an encampment straight out of a history book, and through the picturesque streets of the craft fair, passing so many incredibly believable costumed reenactors, and only think about how profitable it must be?
Cool it, I told myself, forcing a smile. You don't have to like him. If he buys Rob's game and makes it a hit, who cares how mercenary he is? In fact, maybe mercenary is a good thing under the circumstances.
Still, as I introduced him to Rob, who was just returning with two authentic pewter mugs – discreetly filled, thank goodness, with the dual anachronisms of ice and Diet Coke – I cast a glance over at Michael. A British grenadier and a buckskin-clad frontiersman were in the lane just outside, giving an impromptu lesson on the differences between a musket and a rifle to half a dozen boys. Michael was watching, too. Then he noticed a freckled little girl clinging to her mother's hand, but trailing behind, taking in the sights with wide eyes. He bowed deeply to her, the white ribbon cockade on his hat nearly touching the ground, and she broke into a wide smile. Then she and her mother disappeared into the crowd and Michael returned to watching the gunnery demonstration.
Okay, I thought, as I turned back to Rob and Roger Benson. If he likes all this, we'll go to more reenactments. It's not that bad.
'Quite an outfit,' Benson was saying, looking at Rob's costume.
'Well, I wanted to fit in,' Rob said, looking sheepish.
'Oh, I understand,' Benson said. 'When in Rome. Wish you'd warned me it was going to be like this; I could have gotten a costume myself.'
'Oh, you can rent one, very inexpensively,' Eileen put in. 'Mrs. Waterston, the festival organizer, had her dress shop run up dozens, so people who get here and want to join in the fun can do just that.'
'Really,' Benson said. Why did I suspect he wasn't all that thrilled at the idea of renting a costume?
'Yes, what a good idea,' I said. 'Rob, why don't you take him along to the costume rental shop?'
'Uh… yes, thanks,' Benson said, looking resigned. 'I'll do that. Before we do, Rob, I just wanted to ask – '
'How is it going, anyway?' Michael said, drawing me aside.
'Not bad,' I said. 'Getting a lot of commissions, assuming they don't all fall through.'
'I doubt that,' he said. 'My unit alone wants enough ironwork to keep you busy for a couple of months. Bayonets, swords, buckles, things I don't even know the names of.'
'I could get to like your unit,' I said. 'If someone in it would learn to cook edible period food, I could love it.'
'I had no idea you knew how to make all that reproduction hardware – I mean you do, don't you?'
'Most of it, yes; or I can figure it out,' I said. 'I've already done a lot of period medical instruments for dad, you know. And if I need help, I can always ask Faulk. If he doesn't know how, he'll know who does.'
'Faulk again,' Michael said, his good mood evaporating. 'I'm sorry, but I'm really getting tired of hearing about Faulk all the time.'
'Michael,' I said, with exasperation. 'You can't possibly be jealous of Faulk.'
'Why not?' he said. 'Ever since he got back from California, it's Faulk this and Faulk that – '
'Language, young man!' chirped a gray-haired colonial dame, rapping Michael smartly on the head with a folded-up fan.
'I hear more about Faulk than I do about your family,' Michael went on, but in a slightly lower voice.
He was exaggerating, of course; but I didn't think it would help things to say so.
'Well, I have been working very hard on my swordsmithing for the last six months,' I said instead. 'And he's the one who's helping me.'
'And did you have mis burning ambition to become a swordsmith before he turned up doing it?' Michael demanded.
'Michael, Faulk is no threat to you. Not only has he been in a serious relationship for several years, he's – '
'Do you mind?' Michael snapped, suddenly. For a second, I thought he'd snapped at me, and I froze in astonishment. Then I realized he was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Wesley Hatcher lurking just within earshot, notebook in hand. Wesley must have sidled gradually closer, until he could overhear what we were arguing about.
'Trouble in paradise, kids?' he said, with a snicker. 'Don't mind me; just pretend I don't exist.'
'I usually do,' I said, pointedly turning my back. 'Look, Michael, let's talk about this later. Just come with me to see Faulk; I'll fill you in on the way.'
Michael sighed, and was opening his mouth to reply when –
'Thief! Miserable, low-down thief!'
I whirled and strode back toward our booth. I could see several other crafters heading our way. Crafters take theft alarms very seriously. For many of us, running on tight budgets, with a big part of our capital tied up in stock, it didn't take much shoplifting to turn a weekend craft fair from a profitable venture into a financial disaster. I was relieved to see that the people like Amanda who were running their booths solo weren't leaving them, in case the real thief was lurking to strike while a confederate cried 'Wolf!' nearby.
I even saw one of the watchmen. Good. Let the Anachronism Police do something useful for a change.
But when I reached the booth, I was surprised to find Tad giving the alarm. He'd knocked his own wig askew and was shaking his fist at Benson.
'What are you missing?' the watchman was asking Eileen.
'I'm not missing anything,' she said. 'He just got here.'
'Don't be silly,' I said, pointing to Benson's slender briefcase. 'Do you really think that thing would hold very much pottery or wrought iron?'
Although I confess, I did glance at the table to make sure my dagger was still there.
'Tad,' I asked. 'Where did you spot him stealing?'
'He stole CraftWorks!' Tad said.
'CraftWorks?' I repeated, glancing toward the curtain behind which my laptop was hidden. 'How did he
