“Yes,” I say, tucking my wand away, feeling like a pillock. “It’s my syntax that’s buggered. Come on.”
As we get to the festival entrance, a man dressed like a mediaeval peasant steps up, ringing a bell. Without any warning, Simon’s wings explode from his back and spread out completely, in all their red-leather glory.
Simon freezes. Bunce holds out her ring hand. But the people in the queue don’t seem fazed—some of them even start clapping.
“Excellent cos,” a teenage girl says, stepping up to inspect the wings. “Did you build these yourself?”
“Yes?” Simon says.
“So cool—do they move?”
He tentatively folds his wings back.
“Wow!” she says. “I can’t even hear the motor. Are they on strings?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” I say (which is also a spell, though Crowley knows whether it works here).
Penny takes Simon’s elbow and muscles him to the end of the queue.
“What is this place?” I murmur. The person in front of us is dressed as a Viking. There’s also a genie, a pirate, and three women dressed like Disney princesses. “Is it fancy dress?”
“Five dollars off for cosplay,” the ticket seller says to Simon. “You, too,” she says to me.
I look down at myself. “This is a very expensive shirt.”
“Come on,” Simon says, taking my hand. He’s laughing. He turns towards me and pulls me into the festival—and for a moment, everything feels almost magickal. Simon with his wings spread wide, a row of hanging lanterns behind him. There’s smoked meat on the air. And somewhere, someone is playing a dulcimer. (My aunt plays the dulcimer; all the women in my family learn.)
Then Simon swings over to my side, and the fair itself stretches before us.
“What in the curs-ed fuck?” I say.
Bunce and Snow are similarly gobsmacked.
The festival is set up like a tiny village, with hastily built shacks and hand-painted hanging signs. Nearly everyone is dressed like—Crowley, I don’t know. It’s likeMonty Python and the Holy Grailcrossed withThe Princess Bridecrossed withPeter Pan.…
Crossed with some film where all the women wear push-up bras and extremely low-cut dresses. Every other woman here, maid or matron, is laced into a ridiculously tight bodice and spilling out the top. I’ve never seen so much and so many breasts in my life—and we’re only five feet into the festival.
“Crikey,” Simon says.
A nearly topless woman catches his eye and wheels around him. “Good morrow, my lord.”
I wave her away—“Right, right, move along.”
“Fare-thee-well!” she calls to Simon.
“What on earth is the theme?” Bunce has her hands on her hips, properly puzzling it out.
“The Renaissance?” Simon suggests.
“That’s Galileo and da Vinci,” she says. “Not…”
Frodo Baggins waddles by.
“Look,” Simon says, “turkey legs!”
I half expect to see someone wearing turkey legs, but it’s another shack with a large drumstick-shaped sign hanging over the window—SMOKED FOWL.
Bunce and I follow Simon to the shack. “It’s so strange,” he says, grinning. “Nobody’s looking at me.”
