Page 32 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

A group of other Wenches, Pages, and female Castle workers standing by the bar raise their glasses and shout, “THREE CHEERS FOR KIT!”

I look over at Layla, who’s chugging her first drink. She smiles and raises her cup. “Go for it! We can always get an Uber back to my house.”

I know I have rules, plans, and I shouldn’t. But it’s delicious to bask in the praise of my friends. To forget about my worries for a moment and just unwind. Light blue liquor sloshes out of the cup I take from Alex. It smells like something that should be dripping from a car.

I raise my glass: “To a new era at the Castle!”

“Hear! Hear!” Layla and Alex shout.

As we drink, I tell Alex about our training schedule during spring break.

They check their phone for a moment and then smile. “I can make it. And I will. Even if it means moving around a few things.”

I snort. Alex is the only person I know who makes more lists than me. Serious evidence we’d be good friends if either of us had any free time.

Layla, Alex, and I clink glasses. We tell a few other people about the training, including Lizzy and Mags, the Wenches I ran into after my first fight as the Red Knight.

“Are you sure Len is cool with this?” asks Mags, glancing up at the stage where Len’s band is setting up. Tonight the tips of her hair are fire-engine red, and she’s wearing a Ramones tank top, so all her tattoos are on display.

I shrug. “If we can get more guests to the Castle, he’ll have to be cool with it.”

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s a far cry from the truth too.

The blue punch goes down smooth, and before I’m done with it, Layla drags me to the dance floor. The electronic dance music has been replaced by Len’s shitty band pounding out Pearl Jam, but who cares. As long as Len doesn’t stop the performance to yell at me, I’m good. And right now, he’s so into channeling early ’90s Eddie Vedder, he wouldn’t notice me unless I unplugged his guitar.

One cup of punch becomes three somehow, and the dance floor begins to spin. My skin’s too tight for my body.

“I’m going to sit down,” I call out to Layla.

She’s dancing hip to hip with a lovely pink-haired girl who’s one of Alex’s Roller Derby friends and who looks suspiciously like the painting on Layla’s closet wall. Layla’s always dated both boys and girls, and I wonder how long she and Ms. Pink Hair have known each other.

The way they move together gives me all sorts of feelings. Including a deep desire to talk to Jett about breaking the Unbreakable Rules.

“I’ll be over in a minute,” Layla calls.

“You stay here,” I say. “She’s way prettier than Eric.”

“Agreed!” Layla grins and jerks her head toward the back of the Great Hall. “Plus Eric seems pretty busy.”

I glance over my shoulder. Eric’s wrapped around a girl dressed in a knockoff Daenerys Targaryen dress and platinum wig.

“Superfan!” I shout. “Perfect for him!”

I don’t know our very own Mother of Dragons’ real name, but she’s at the Castle at least three times a week. Sometimes she even poses for pictures with the guests. She’s not supposed to do that, and Layla’s theory is that she thinks she’ll get a job eventually if she keeps showing up. “You sure you’re not torn up about losing him?”

Layla rolls her eyes. “I’ll heal in time.”

The pink-haired girl pulls her closer and they disappear into the crowd. I step away and move toward the back of the room, heading toward the exit. I need air, fast.

I go the long way to avoid Eric’s make-out fest and end up winding my way past the display cases that hold weapons and other medieval knickknacks. There’s a booth in one corner and Dalton, the Green Knight, calls out from the shadows as I pass.

“Nice work, Sweetly.” His voice is rough with alcohol. With the hood of his jacket up, he looks a teeny bit like Strider the Ranger in The Lord of the Rings, and an unexpected pang of warmth toward him shoots through me.

For a minute I think he’s congratulating me on riding out as the Red Knight, which is so unexpected I stop in my tracks. “Um, thanks. You did a good job too.”

“I’m not applauding you,” Dalton sneers. “You’re worthless as a Knight and that was just a lucky shot.”

He stumbles to his feet, drunk and most un-Strider-like. My warm feeling evaporates.