Jason, in autumnal gold-leaf sunshine, felt the Renaissance Faire wash over them. Lute-playing and hay and turkey legs and spices. Leather and ribbons. Knights in armor and the glint of sunshine from cloaks and jewelry. Stories and play in motion, out here in California.
Colby, saucer-eyed and distracted by the world, had already devoured a tankard of spiced mead and some sort of sticky almond candy, and had run over to watch archery demonstrations and juggling and corset-fitting with the eagerness of someone just now learning that other people loved medieval bread recipes too, and would happily dive into conversations with him about it. Jason, being a good solid anchor, held onto those pretty fingers when they slid into his—Colby did need some reassurance, someplace to come back to, amid
