Page 5 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

A frown creases Jett’s forehead. “Where’s your brother? Why didn’t he give you a ride?”

“That’s the million-gold-pieces question. I’ve been looking for him, which is why I need to find Layla… .”

“She’s stuck behind the registers over in admissions,” says Jett. Another trumpet blast rings through the loudspeakers, and Jett and I jump. Our hands brush for a moment. It’s a feather of a touch, but it sends heat throughout my body.

Good grief. There’s a washerwoman in my stomach, twisting it into knots.

I squeeze his hand once in a hey-best-friend-glad-we’reclose-but-remember-our-rule-about-not-dating-each-other kind of way, then let go.

“Want to get coffee after the show?” he asks, as he slips his hands into his pockets. He sounds totally unfazed by our hand contact. Which makes sense, since he’s the one who suggested the Unbreakable Rules in the first place. “Promise we won’t talk about math homework.”

“Absolutely. Meet you here afterward. Have a great show and don’t forget to blow hard!” My reply comes out in a rush, but I try to make it sound cool and relaxed.

He raises the trumpet at me. “You’re hilarious. Wench your heart out.”

“You know I will.”

I most certainly don’t sound cool or relaxed. Lucky for me, though, my reply is lost in the hum of the crowd.

As I make my way toward the front of the Castle, I run my finger over and over the spot where Jett’s hand brushed mine. Feeling the planes of it like it’s a worry stone, wishing he’d come back and do more than hold my hand.

Which is stupid and not even remotely a good idea. I know this. But that doesn’t mean I want it any less.

3

THE ADMISSIONS DESK IS CROWDED WITH LATE ARRIVALS, and Layla stands behind the counter. Doodles and caricatures of people at the Castle cover the sheet of paper in front of her. Layla’s art is astonishing, and she’s already been accepted into a graphic design program in New York City next year.

“Uh-huh, yes, I understand.” Layla nods, her face a mask of customer care, as a woman in a polka-dotted dress and gold heels waves a ticket at her. “I see you do have a ticket here. But this was for the four thirty show, not the seven thirty, and we can’t do any refunds. You can sit in an open section if we have anything left …”

The woman’s face starts to turn pink as she begins a Veruca Salt–level tirade. I grab a handful of table cards and shove them across the desk toward her.

“Here, just go to section four, Blue Knight’s cheering area.”

“Thank you so much,” says the woman. “I’m glad I didn’t have to take it up with your manager. I mean these tickets are expensive.”

Layla’s mouth twitches as she holds back a smile. We’ve heard all this before: tickets are expensive, it’s a special occasion, you want your money’s worth …

“You can step on over to photo,” Layla says. Her smile breaks free, making the dimples in her cheek pop.

The woman pauses for a moment and considers Layla. “Did anyone ever tell you look just like the girl from Game of Thrones, the Khaleesi’s friend?”

At least once a night someone tells Layla she looks like “the Khaleesi’s friend.” People rarely know the character’s name—Missandei—or remember the fact that she’s fierce and super smart in her own right. Or that she was a slave initially, so maybe it’s not something you should get into with your seventeen-year-old African American cashier who’s just trying to do her minimum-wage job with a smile on her face.

Layla digs her nails into the countertop. “Dracarys,” she hisses under her breath.

A confused look passes over the woman’s face. Like she can’t quite place the fact that dracarys was the last word Missandei uttered before being executed. Or the fact that it was a signal to her bestie to burn it all down. It’s also Layla’s and my latest BFF code for “Get this person out of my face now before I lose it.”

I squeeze Layla’s arm once and point the woman toward the Great Hall. “This register is now closed,” I say. “Please move on to photo.”

Once the woman is gone, I turn to Layla. “You okay?”

“That was the third time tonight,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her fingers unclench. “Give me strength to withstand fandom tourists.”

“You handled it beautifully. Just a few more months and then you’re out of here.”

Layla smiles at me again. “Thanks for the rescue. So, what brings you this way, m’lady?”

“Chris. He’s MIA and Len’s threatening to fire him if he doesn’t show up. Can I use your phone?”