Page 2 of Chivalry is Not Dead

“Cool, yeah. That works too.”

He takes a deep breath, his armor rattling a bit, and then leans toward me conspiratorially. “Whence cometh thou hither? How didst thou accomplish it?”

Now that I can hear him clearly, I still don’t quite understand what he’s asking. “How did I get here?” He nods in encouragement. “Oh, well, I drove from my apartment…?”

Somehow I know that’s not what he’s looking for. That notion is confirmed when his shoulders droop. A moment later he tries again. This time, he removes his glove and gently takes my skirts between his bare fingers. His veiny hand flexes as he rubs the fabric, and I would really like for him to take his helmet off.

“My lady, art thou from these parts?”

Finally, a question I know the answer to! “Yes! Lived here my entire life. What about you?”

“No, my lady.”

Duh. The accent gave that away. “You can call me Penny.”

“I shall make use of the formal—my lady or Lady Penelope.”

I absolutely don’t hate the way Lady Penelope sounds coming out of his mouth. “Whatever suits your fancy.” I shrug. “Speaking of suits—is that armor heavy? I can’t believe how real it looks.”

“Verily, it is true. And, yea, this armor is exceeding heavy.”

“Where did you get it?” I wish I could see his face to gauge his reactions to my questions.

“‘Twas wrought by a blacksmith’s own hands.”

Huh? “Where’d you find a blacksmith in Auraria?”

“Lady Penelope, I⁠—”

“PENNY GRAVES, GET YOUR ASS BACK INSIDE! It’s almost midnight and you know what that means!”

My best friend is… eccentric. “That would be Leah, the hostess with the most-ess. Have you met her yet? It’s our tradition to take a midnight shot on Halloween.” I mime gagging.

“Hark, ‘tis near midnight? I must hence anon.” Sanders stands, offering me his still un-gloved hand. His skin is calloused and rough, and it feels delectable.

What is wrong with me?

“Are you Cinderella?” I joke. “Will you turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight?”

“A pumpkin?” he questions.

“You know.” I wave my hands around in an attempt to demonstrate. “Cinderella’s carriage turns into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

I can almost hear his sad smile when he says, “Nay, ‘tis not a pumpkin, my lady.”

Sanders bends, lifting the base of his helmet to plant a kiss on my hand, lighting me on fire with his touch. A moment too late, I bend trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he’s returned the armor back to its proper place. “Mayhap we shall meet again, Lady Penelope.”

Then he’s gone.

And Leah is dragging me inside for our midnight shot.

Which turns into shots, plural.

Something I will certainly regret in the morning.

2

Never has my heart been so taken aback as when I awoke on the first day of November.