The Falcon Always Wings Twice Page 2

  “You didn’t see the big sign over the front gate welcoming you to the Riverton Renaissance Faire?” I asked.

  “I was busy with my binoculars, looking for the warblers.” Grandfather’s tone implied that mere human signage was beneath his notice. “Your father told me he’d spotted some cerulean warblers along the road up here. Have you seen them? Magnificent blue plumage.”

  “The vast numbers of people in costume didn’t tip you off?” I refused to be distracted by warblers, however decorative.

  “I thought maybe it was one of your grandmother’s peculiar notions.” His disapproving tone implied that Cordelia had been guilty of any number of notions that were not only peculiar but downright questionable, like shooting Nerf guns at whooping cranes’ nests or organizing a Morris dancing performance in the middle of one of his birdwatching expeditions.

  “Well, now that you know what’s really going on, are you planning to stick around? We can find you a costume.”

  “Are costumes required? You make all your visitors wear costumes?” Grandfather gripped the front of his fisherman’s vest as if afraid we’d confiscate it.

  “No,” Dad said. “Although a lot of them come in costume or rent one when they get here.”

  “It’s turning into a big moneymaker, costume rental,” I said. “We ran out early the first two weekends, so Cordelia recruited Mother to help ramp up production.”

  “Your mother is sewing costumes?” Grandfather sounded as if he thought that would be interesting to see.

  “Mother? What could possibly give you that idea? I said. “She supervises. And designs some of the fancier costumes. And charms the tourists into spending more on costumes than they originally planned. I can probably get you a family discount on yours.”

  “I’m sure your mother will let him have one for free,” Dad said.

  I wasn’t so sure, but if it would keep the peace, I’d pay for his costume.

  “And the costumes make it more fun,” Dad added.

  Grandfather frowned as he watched a couple of Michael’s performers stroll by. They were costumed as minstrels, in brightly colored tights and short doublets. Not Grandfather’s idea of fun.

  “Maybe I should just go home.” His voice sounded flat, as if by revealing to him the real nature of the Faire we’d destroyed all his joy in life. I felt a pang of completely unwarranted guilt.

  Dad sighed and wilted slightly. I deduced that he had brought Grandfather with him. You’d think he’d have found some time, on the hour-long drive up from Caerphilly, to explain where they were really going. And if he had to take Grandfather back, he’d miss the first few hours of the day’s Faire. Probably the whole day if he ended up having to amuse Grandfather at home. Which, quite apart from disappointing Dad, would leave us short-staffed in the first aid tent. My cousin Horace—who in addition to being a Caerphilly deputy and a veteran crime scene technician was also a trained EMT—was here as part of the Faire’s official security, but having Dad around increased my peace of mind. And Cordelia’s.

  “Well, now that you’re here, you might as well stick around and enjoy the experience,” I suggested.

  Grandfather scowled.

  “I hear there’s good owling here,” I added. The prospect of birdwatching might reconcile Grandfather to sticking around. Especially if it involved owls. Grandfather was fond of predators of any kind.

  “Oh, yes!” Dad brightened. “Last weekend I heard calls from several barn owls and a great horned owl. And possibly an Eastern screech owl—it was a little too far to tell. I’ve been so busy the last few weeks that I’ve hardly done any nature hikes, and I’ve only managed to set out two of those little motion-sensitive nature cameras you gave me. But we should make a point of getting in an owling expedition this weekend.”

  “We’re already too late for owling today.” Grandfather sounded as if Dad had arranged this on purpose.

  “We can go tomorrow morning,” Dad said.

  “And in the meantime, you can spend some time with the falcons.” I could have kicked myself for not mentioning them in the first place. As predators went, falcons were near the top of Grandfather’s favorites list.

  “Falcons? What kind?”

  “A peregrine falcon and, I think, a red-tailed hawk,” I said. “Or is the other one a Harris’s hawk? Well, you’ll know when you see them. Have some breakfast first, and then once we round you up a costume, Dad can take you over to Falconer’s Grove.”

  “Fine.” Grandfather turned and began striding toward the buffet. “Just remember that I’m not wearing tights,” he called over his shoulder.

  “I doubt if Mother would let you,” I said.

  “I’m sure they can find you a nice nobleman’s robe,” Dad called out. He looked torn between trotting after Grandfather and staying to placate Cordelia, who was still hovering. “Something elegant and distinguished.”

  “Maybe that alchemist’s outfit we used for your brother’s guest appearance last week,” Michael suggested. “It should fit nicely—he and Rob are about the same height.”

  “And just where is he going to stay?” Cordelia asked.

  “That’s no problem,” Dad said. “We brought his big tent—in fact, all his camping gear; everything he takes on his expeditions.”

  “He’ll be fine, then,” I said. While Grandfather was perfectly capable of roughing it if he had to, he saw no reason to inflict needless suffering on himself or his companions. His camping gear was all state of the art, and his tent was considerably more comfortable than most five-star hotels.

  “Not a stick of it in period,” Cordelia said. “Make sure he sets it up inside the woods, where the tourists can’t spot him.”

  I was relieved that she sounded more matter-of-fact than annoyed. Progress.

  “No problem,” Michael said. “Plenty of room in Camp Anachronism.” Most of the Faire participants were camping out, and very few of them wanted to do so in period, so we’d set up a large fenced-in campground in the woods, out of sight of the tourists. “And I’m sure the boys will want to move into the fancy tent, so Dad and Grandfather can keep an eye on them.”

  “And vice versa,” I suggested.

  “Then I suppose he can stay.” Under the circumstances, that almost counted as gracious hospitality. Cordelia turned to go, then hesitated and came back, evidently with something else on her mind.

  “You ever figure out what was up with Nigel last weekend?” she asked.

  I glanced at Michael, who looked puzzled.

  “The disappearing act,” I reminded him. “You were going to ask him.”

  “Not that I want to micromanage what the actors are doing,” Cordelia said. “But from what I heard, he flat out vanished around noon and only reappeared a little before closing time. Not a big problem—I was just wondering. You all seem to have worked around him in the Game, and I didn’t see any signs that he was … well, you know.”

  Yes, we knew. We were all keeping an eye on Nigel Howe, nervous that his relatively newfound sobriety might not last. He and Michael had met many years ago on the set of a soap opera. Michael, fresh out of college, was the new kid on the block, and Nigel, only a few years older, had seemed poised on the brink of stardom, with his pick of several movie roles waiting as soon as he served out the last few months of his contract. I had never quite figured out whether alcohol had wrecked Nigel’s career or whether he’d started drinking heavily after a series of disastrous career choices, like turning down parts in smash hits for parts in real stinkers. Maybe a little of both.

  But he’d cleaned up his act in the last couple of years, thanks to tough love from a few friends like Michael and regular attendance at twelve-step meetings. He was hoping to use his summer job at the Ren Faire—and the glowing recommendations he was determined to earn from Cordelia and Michael—to help convince directors and casting agents that he was employable again. We were all rooting for him—but if he’d fallen off the wagon …

  “Migraine, from what
he told me,” Michael said. “He seemed perfectly sober when I talked to him that evening. He was fine all day Sunday.”

  “And worked tirelessly all week,” I added—for Michael’s benefit, since he’d spent most of the past week down in Caerphilly supervising the installation of a new septic field at our house.

  “We started him off on kitchen duty,” Cordelia said. “Until he thought to mention that he sews well enough to help out on the costume crew. He’s been doing a great job there.”

  A few of the actors and Faire workers only came Friday through Sunday for the Renaissance Faire, but most of the non-locals took advantage of the opportunity to stay through the whole week while the craft classes were in session, working a second job in return for room, board, and minimum wage. The work was far from grueling, the food excellent, and the surroundings beautiful, so Cordelia had no trouble filling up the kitchen crew, the grounds crew, the housekeeping staff, and the costume shop that had been working so diligently to make more rental costumes.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for a chance to talk to him about it,” Michael said. “Ask how things are going. If there’s any kind of support he needs.”

  “If he really does have migraines, I might be able to help.” Dad sounded eager. “I’ve been doing a lot of research. And it’s come in handy, hasn’t it?” He beamed at Cordelia, who nodded.

  “I don’t have a lot of migraines these days,” she said.

  “You see! I’ll talk to him sometime today.” With that, Dad trotted off toward the buffet.

  “I didn’t know you suffered from migraines,” I said to Cordelia.

  “I don’t,” she said. “Never did. Just an average number of perfectly ordinary headaches. But I used to say I had migraines to get myself out of doing things I really didn’t want to do, like chairing church committees or attending my next-door neighbor’s vegan potluck dinners.”

  “Sounds useful,” I said. “And Dad took away all your excuses.”

  “Oh, no.” She chuckled. “Now I just say that I’m following my doctor’s orders and avoiding trigger situations. Works just as well, without all the bother of pretending to be sick. I throw around words like prodrome and vasodilation and you’d be surprised how eager they are to let me off the hook. But getting back to your father—he really does know a lot about migraine, so he might be able to help.”

  “Just don’t bring up the subject in front of Rose Noire,” I said. “Because if she hears about it she’ll want to concoct an herbal tea to supplement whatever Dad recommends, and if it tastes like most of her medicinal teas I’d just as soon keep the migraine.”

  “Duly noted.” She was scanning the room with what Michael and I called her problem-finding X-ray vision. The tension in her face gradually eased—no doubt because she was seeing nothing but costumed staff bolting their breakfasts and dashing out to get ready for the Faire’s 10:00 A.M. opening. Then she frowned again. “And now I have to get up long before dawn to take the old fool owling.”

  “Says who?” I asked.

  “If you think I’m going to let your grandfather wander around my property unsupervised, you have another think coming. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t fall off the mountain.”

  “Someone has to,” I agreed. “No reason it has to be you. Let Dad do it. He’d probably enjoy it.”

  “No offense, but James has never been all that good at managing his father. I won’t rest easy unless I’m there myself.”

  With that she strode off. Michael and I headed for the buffet line.

  “Bother,” I said. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “That someone needs to go along to keep the peace between your grandparents.” He was piling his plate with bacon and eggs. “Because that’s another thing your dad isn’t very good at. What time do we need to get up?”

  “You don’t have to go,” I said. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  “And you don’t?” He had moved on to the fruit section of the buffet and was loading up on fresh berries. “We’ll go to bed really early. It’ll be a lovely family expedition.”

  Michael was a big believer in the idea that if you worked on adopting a positive attitude you could often achieve it. And much of the time it actually worked.

  “So are you sorry yet that you turned down Laertes?” I was holding the tongs, trying to decide between sausage and bacon.

  “Turned down Laertes? Are you kidding?”

  Chapter 4

  We turned to see that Jacquelynn Morris—Jacks for short—another of Michael’s actors, was in line behind us.

  “In Hamlet, I assume,” Jacks went on. “Unless some other playwright has had the nerve to steal the name. So what production are you scoffing at?”

  “The one Neil O’Malley is directing at the Arena Stage,” I said, as I helped myself to both sausage and bacon.

  Jacks’s eyes widened at the name of the famous—or would it be infamous?—director.

  “Ooh,” she said. “O’Malley may be crazy as a bedbug, but he’s also brilliant. I can’t believe you turned down a part in one of his shows.”

  “I didn’t exactly turn down a part,” Michael said. “Someone claiming to be one of his assistants called to invite me to an audition. I thanked her and said I already had a gig.”

  “No offense,” Jacks said. “But there’s no way I’d choose the Ren Faire over a production at the Arena. If they offered me—well, Ophelia’s probably not in the cards anymore.” Jacks was a buxom redhead about my own age. She glanced down ruefully at her figure—which was quite striking, especially in her corseted costume, but very far from the waif-like ingénues the bad-boy director tended to cast in his shows. “But Gertrude’s a good meaty role. And being in one of O’Malley’s shows could make your career.”

  “Or wreck your life,” Michael said. “I was in one of his shows—a couple of decades ago.”

  “Oh, my God!” Jacks was clearly impressed. “Was it fabulous?”

  “It was a train wreck.” Michael shuddered at the memory. “O’Malley was quite possibly the most self-indulgent, egotistical jackass I’d ever met. Working with him was one of the last straws that convinced me to go back to school, finish my degree, and see if I couldn’t get a job teaching drama.”

  “Still—maybe he remembers you.” Jacks didn’t give up easily. “Maybe that’s why he wants you to audition.”

  “If he remembers me, it would be as a brash young actor, almost as cocky and self-centered as he was,” Michael said. “And I’m more than half convinced the call was a practical joke.”

  “Still.” She shook her head again and glanced discontentedly at the buffet. She was holding the tongs now and looking regretfully at the bacon. “Well, we all have to lead our own lives. What the hell.” She shrugged and helped herself to three slices of bacon. “I’ll burn it off today.” She waved and went over to a table where several other actors were already eating.

  “If you were doing Laertes, you wouldn’t be getting up at sunrise to go owling,” I pointed out.

  “No, I’d probably be staying up till sunrise listening to O’Malley brag about all the famous people he knows. Owling’s probably more fun.” He paused for a few moments, then asked, “What time is sunrise, anyway?”

  “Let’s not look it up just yet,” I said. “I think I’ll be happier not knowing for the time being. But it occurs to me that if I could get Faulk to do tomorrow’s eleven a.m. blacksmithing demonstration, I might be able to sneak in a nap after the owling expedition.” I finished filling my plate—actually I’d chosen a large bowl, as usual, so I could take my breakfast with me—snagged a fork and turned to go. “I’ll ask him now.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said. “Tell him hi for me.”

  “Will do.” As I wound my way through the Dining Hall, nibbling bits of fruit and bacon and returning greetings from people I passed, I found myself chuckling as I thought about how far we’d come. The first time Michael had met Faulk, my blacksmithing mentor—h
ow long ago was it? Pre-twins and then some—he’d been insanely jealous. Faulk was only a little shorter than Michael’s six foot four, with thick blond hair, arrestingly blue eyes, handsome features, and the kind of lean, muscular physique that you get from a decade of blacksmithing. Michael and I had only just started dating, and maybe he felt a little threatened by the sudden arrival of someone with whom I shared both a long history of friendship and a beloved profession.

  I’m not sure how long it would have taken him to get past the jealousy if he hadn’t found out that Faulk was gay, and thus in no way a rival for my affections. And by now, Faulk and his husband, Tad, were old and valued friends.

  In the Great Hall I ran into Dad and Grandfather. Evidently the alchemist’s robe had met with Grandfather’s approval. It was made of black velvet and heavily decked with faux rubies and small silver charms in the shape of various alchemical symbols. And it was ankle length, even on his tall frame, so it almost completely hid his slightly anachronistic hiking boots. He also wore a floppy black velvet hat with a sweeping white plume—which meant I didn’t have to worry quite so much about sunstroke—and carried a six-foot staff topped with a black raven. He looked very impressive, and his facial expression and body language showed that he knew it.

  “This will do,” he said, nodding down at his costume. “What’s wrong with your mother, anyway? Normally she’d have been hovering around to adjust my costume, but she just sits there in her chair grimacing. And every time I tried to ask her what’s wrong, the costume ladies shushed me.” Was he really worried about Mother, or did he just miss being fussed over?

  “She broke several bones in her right foot, and it’s in a walking boot,” I said. “Not that she’s walking yet—we’re still pushing her around in a wheelchair. If you’re curious, I’m sure Dad would love to explain exactly which bones she broke and how well they’re likely to heal, but for heaven’s sake don’t let him do it in front of her. She’s deathly afraid she’ll never be able to wear heels again, and if that happens, she might give in to temptation and strangle the klutzy actor who tripped her.” Yet another black mark on Terence’s record.