Page 3 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

But who knows what that even looks like?

Wheels turning, I pin one of the flyers up on the employee bulletin board alongside a schedule for Knight training sessions, a bunch of notices from people looking for roommates, and a photo-heavy sheet of paper from someone trying to sell their old costumes. I drop the rest of the flyers onto the table under the bulletin board and look for my phone. Time to find my brother before Len can fire him.

My phone’s not in my skirt pocket, meaning I must’ve left it in the employee lockers. They’re on the far side of the basement. If I’m going to call Chris, it’ll be much faster to find my best friend Layla, who always has her phone on her.

Cooks and dishwashers stream past me as I navigate the long hallway from Len’s office. Shields, swords, capes, and other props line the corridor. A roar of noise swells as I pass by a door that swings open to the Great Hall. For a second I see the mob: crown-wearing guests moving in packs, taking pictures, buying souvenirs, and dragging wide-eyed kids toward the performers who are contractually bound to smile for the cameras. The door slams shut, blocking out the noise. Layla’s out there somewhere, and I hope I don’t have to wade through that mess to find her.

“Hey, look out!” I shout as a Squire in the Green Knight’s colors nearly plows over me. He’s carrying a pile of shields, weapons, and a messenger bag.

“Sorry, Kit,” he calls out, shooting me a grin. It’s Eric Taylor, man of two first names, who was a year ahead of me in school. “I thought Wenches weren’t supposed to use this hall.”

I scowl at him. “I thought Squires were supposed to be picking up horse poop.”

As Len mentioned, the official way to become a Knight is to work through the ranks and earn a place after being a Squire. Eric Taylor wants nothing more than to be a Knight and have his picture on the Castle website. He’s even started growing his red hair out in anticipation of his knighthood. But he’s got a long way to go, and right now it looks like he’s wearing a Halloween mullet wig made from a red panda.

Eric scoffs. “That’s just during the show. But you know that, right? Because I heard you were asking Len to be a Knight.”

“How in the world do you know that?” My mouth falls open. “I literally just left his office. Do you have it bugged?”

“Word travels fast in the Castle,” says Eric. “Jessica heard Len telling the MC that you—”

“Forget it,” I say. I don’t have the headspace for the Castle rumor mill right now.

“Let me be the second one to tell you,” says Eric. “You’ll never be a Knight. I’m up next for the role, and you know they won’t go out of order.”

“Get out of my way,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m suddenly more determined than ever to become a Knight, if for no reason other than to knock the self-satisfied grin off Eric’s face.

Eric steps aside, giving me a mock bow. “If you see Layla,” he calls out to me, “tell her my offer is going to expire soon.”

I spin around, temper flaring. “Let me be the first to tell you,” I say, mocking his tone perfectly, “Layla will never go out with you!”

Eric laughs and then—the slug!—winks at me. “We’ll see.”

I grab for the closest thing, a foam chess piece shaped like a tower, and throw it at him. He laughs again as he dodges it and hurries away.

Eric’s been trying to date Layla since we started working here three years ago. He’s slime incarnate, but I worry he’s starting to wear her down. Layla’s love life is suddenly as pressing as my brother’s truancy, so I push through one of the swinging doors, heading into the Great Hall.

Noise assaults me at once—laughing tourists, people ordering beer, upbeat medieval-style music playing through the speakers, hawkers calling out for people to buy souvenirs. The Master Falconer skulks in a corner with a hooded bird on his wrist. Above me, the vaulted ceiling is painted with shields, crests, and medieval heraldry. The heraldry is all sound and fury, signifying nothing, which is exactly the opposite purpose of medieval shields and crests. It’s bothered me for years, but imagine Len’s reaction if I threw my heraldry book onto his desk and demanded we fix it.

Yeah.

I have a heraldry book.

And no, not even the people at the Castle know. Some secrets are too much even for these premium geeks.

I squeeze through a crowd that surrounds Wallace, the Castle juggler and official Fool. He’s got five multicolored balls in the air, and the crowd around him oohs and aahs as he throws them higher and spins around to catch them.

“Gadsbudlikins, Lady Wench!” he says, spotting me. The balls stay in the air, a twisting rainbow of color. “You’re in quite a hurry for such a fopdoodling scobberlotcher!”

Wallace prides himself on being able to swear like they did in the Middle Ages. Usually, I’d stay and spar with him for a few rounds, but today I’m in a hurry. I rack my brain for a quick something to say back to him.

“I’m only racing to get past you, my dear muckspouting mumblecrust.” I curtsy as I say it.

Wallace catches the balls and bows slightly to me. “Well played, Wench! Would you care to stay and exchange a few more choice words?”

I curtsy again at him. “Alas, my good Fool, I cannot.”

“Go forth, and Godspeed!” He bows again and goes back to juggling.