This was my favorite time of day at the faire; the golden glow in the sky, the breeze coming up off the water, the singing and dancing, and I was now free to enjoy it—as long as I wasn’t recognized. As the kids disappeared, hand in hand, it was hard to remember they were teenagers. I envied their freeness; not freedom, but how they used what they had…or how they intended to use what they had, later.
“Pirates don’t hold hands,” James growled. “But they do drink. Come on, let’s hit the beer tent! Oh sorry, didn’t mean to slip out of character.” James stood taller, cleared his throat horribly, and added, “Do ye prefer Cedric the Monk’s House of Ale, or Ye Olde Taverne or Pleasure?”
“That’s much better, and I don’t care,” I replied. “There’s also Pedro’s Shooting Gallery; why don’t we try al
