Chapter Two
Thirty minutes later,Finn pulled his Aston Martin into a gravel parking lot, and he, Bria, Owen, and I got out of the car.
Even though it was a cold, blustery January morning, hundreds of people had still come out for the Winter’s Web Renaissance Faire in Riverfront Park, and Finn had snagged one of the few remaining parking spots. We fell in with the flow of people streaming towarda black wrought-iron fence that marked the park entrance. Brightly colored ribbons had been woven through the bars, along with strings of silver bells, as if to add a bit of jingling cheer to the winter day.
Beyond the fence was a flat, grassy space that was serving as the concessions area. Food trucks, vans, and carts lined both sides of the expanse, with several wooden picnic tables and metaltrash cans clustered in the middle. I focused on a white truck that featured a logo of a pig holding a platter of food, along with the wordsPork Piton the side. Sophia had already found a spot among the other trucks, although she wouldn’t open for business until I came to help her.
Many of the other trucks, vans, and carts were already serving food, and the sticky-sweet smells of kettle cornand cotton candy curled through the air, along with the warm, rich scents of hot chocolate and cinnamon-apple cider and the harsher, greasier aromas of French fries and funnel cakes.
Finn drew in a deep appreciative breath, then sighed it out. “Ah. I love the smell of faire food in the morning.”
Bria elbowed him in the side. “We’re here to volunteer, remember? Not eat ourselves into a sugarcoma.”
Finn pouted, but then he spotted a guy dressed like a barbarian gnawing on an enormous turkey leg, and he perked right back up again. “I amtotallygetting one of those for lunch.”
Bria rolled her eyes, while Owen and I laughed. We walked through the concessions area and stopped, staring out at the scene before us.
As its name implied, Riverfront Park fronted the Aneirin River as itcut through Ashland, and the grass spread out in all directions like a dull green picnic blanket. Stone paths wound through much of the park, many of them leading to water fountains, swing sets, and more picnic tables. Several rhododendron and other bushes dotted the landscape, along with a few towering maples with bare, skeletal branches.
The east side of the park butted up against the city,with metal-and-glass skyscrapers looming just a few blocks away. Over there, a low stone wall cordoned off the grass from the river below before opening up into a wide pedestrian bridge that crossed the water and led into the downtown area.
On the west side of the park, the stone paths winnowed to dirt hiking trails that vanished into the thick brown woods. Beyond the trees, an old rust-coloredbarn perched on a hill in the distance, like a weary, worn-out soldier keeping watch on all the activities below.
The park itself was pretty enough, but what made it truly interesting were the people roaming around inside.
Especially since most of them were in costume.
Jesters, princesses, pirates, wizards, minstrels, witches, and more had gathered for the renaissance faire. Most of the outfitswere simple—crystal tiaras, plastic swords, and black eye patches paired with store-bought velvet shirts and leather pants and boots.
But some of the ensembles were quite elaborate and handcrafted with obvious, impressive skill, like the exquisite embroidery of winter snowflakes, spring flowers, summer suns, and autumn leaves on a sorceress’s long, flowing blue cloak. Or the knight encased ina full suit of armor that featured jagged marks carved into the metal, along with streaks of red paint, as though he had barely survived being attacked by some monster with extremely sharp claws.
Even the folks who weren’t dressed in bona fide costumes were still sporting superhero and other fantasy T-shirts, jackets, and hoodies, while many of the kids were waving sparkling magic wands and runningaround with glittery fairy wings attached to their backs.
“Well,” Bria said, “at least we’re not the only ones in costume.”
“There is that small favor,” I agreed.
Whether they were in costume or not, people were already moving from one wooden booth and tented area to the next. Vendors manned many of the booths, selling everything from old-fashioned jewelry and replica weapons to handmade soapsand perfumes, while the tents were spaces for face painting, storytelling, and other activities.
In keeping with theWinter’s Webtheme, all the booths and tents had been decorated with plastic silver snowflakes and icicles, pale blue cobwebs, and strings of white and blue fairy lights. Snowflakes, icicles, and cobwebs also decorated many of the water fountains, swing sets, and picnic tables,while lights had been wrapped around several trees and bushes. A few machines were scattered about, blowing fake flakes of white and blue snow up into the air. Despite my earlier grumblings, even I had to admit that it made for a lovely, enchanting scene.
“We just need to find Darrell, and he’ll tell us where to go,” Owen said.
He’d barely finished speaking when a voice rose above the chatteringcrowd.
“Owen! There you are!”
A forty-something man stepped around a passel of giggling teenage princesses and hurried over to us. He was tall and thin, with shaggy, sandy-brown hair, hazel eyes, and silver glasses. Like Finn, he was dressed in a green velvet shirt, along with matching pants and boots, although his outfit was much more muted and practical than my brother’s striped jester costume.An old-fashioned wooden bow was strapped to the man’s back, along with a black leather quiver full of arrows, as though he was some ren-faire Robin Hood.
He would have looked really cool, except for two things: the clipboard he was clutching and the white paper tag on his shirt that readAshland Renaissance Players, Event Staff. The modern touches totally ruined the derring-do vibe of his costume.
Owen smiled and stepped forward to shake the other man’s hand. “Hey, Darrell. Looks like you’re going to have a great turnout for the faire, despite the cold weather.”
“Well, it is called Winter’s Web,” the other man joked. “I guess it would be false advertising if it wasn’t cold. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”
Darrell Kline was an accountant who worked for Owen and the reason we were here. In addition to managingmoney, Darrell was also one of the board members of the Ashland Renaissance Players and was heavily involved in staging the faire. He had been talking to Owen about volunteering at the event ever since Owen had won the tickets.
I had met Darrell a few weeks ago at the holiday party Owen hosted for his workers at the Pork Pit. He had seemed like a nice enough guy, but he had lit up like, well,a Christmas tree once he started talking about his passion.
