ReLynn Vaughn, thank you especially for the GIFs. You know the ones. You are the best enabler.
Many thanks to Brenda Drake and the Pitch Wars community, especially my mentor, Brighton Walsh, who taught me everything I know about structuring a novel, and also traumatized me with pictures involving Pringles cans. I can’t thank you enough, B. The class of 2016 Pitch Wars mentees (Go Raptors!) is a wonderful, supportive group of people and I’m lucky to be one of them. Meet you in the sprantenhausen!
Shout-out to the volunteers, cast, and crew of the Lady of the Lakes Renaissance Faire. Whether I’m a volunteer or a patron, Faire is one of the highlights of my year, and writing this book let me hang out there a little longer. It’s been an honor to be a pub wench in your ranks. Special thanks to Michael and Jennifer Dempsey for sharing your stories.
When I asked for beta readers for this book, I hoped one or two people might read it and give me their thoughts. I was amazed and grateful for the deluge of feedback. Thank you, thank you to Kate Clayborn, Elisabeth Lane, Helen Hoang, ReLynn Vaughn, Trysh Thompson, Ian Barnes, Rosiee Thor, Adele Buck, Haley Kral, and JR Yates for your time and efforts. You helped make this a better story.
Joining Romance Writers of America was the best decision I made when it was time to take my writing seriously. I’m so grateful to have a local chapter, Central Florida Romance Writers, who have been so supportive and encouraging along the way. Thank you all.
Writing friends are integral, but non-writing friends are just as vital. Amanda Bond and Julie Dietz, thanks for understanding when deadlines had me bailing on nights out, but just as importantly thanks for sometimes dragging me out from behind the computer for wine walks and movie nights! Hate chicken is on me. Mandy Lantigua and TraMi Willey, you Stupid Terminators, I love you.
Finally, I have to thank my husband, Morgan Lee. Occasionally he likes to burst into my office when I’m writing a super-emotional scene to tell me about something funny he found on Facebook, and sometimes he likes to encourage me by saying, “Is that book done yet?” and “You’re not getting paid by the hour to write that book, you know.” But he has always believed in me, and never blinked an eye when I went to retreats and conferences that we couldn’t afford so I could improve my craft. I’ve never seen anyone as happy as he was the moment I told him I sold a novel. Thank you for having my back, honey. I love you.
Continue reading for a special preview of Jen DeLuca’s Well Played, coming from Berkley in Fall 2020.
Simon turned his attention to me, and his brows drew together. “Are you sure about that necklace, Stacey?” His voice was pitched low since he’d dropped the accent and his character. “It seems a little . . . elaborate for a tavern wench.”
My fist closed around the pendant, the dragonfly’s wings digging into my palm. “Perhaps it’s time for a change, then, Captain.” I kept my voice light, almost teasing, so neither of them could see my irritation.
“She has a point,” Emily said. “The taverns are mostly run by volunteers now. Maybe Stacey and I can be different characters next summer.”
“Perhaps.” Simon shifted from one foot to the other as his Faire accent crept back. He didn’t like change, especially when it came to Faire. But Emily looped her arm through his, bringing his focus to her, and the smile returned to his face. “Perhaps,” he said again. Fully back in character, his voice was pure pirate, and he bussed Emily’s temple. “For now, though, I’m due on the chess field. Would you lasses care to join me?”
“The last human chess match of the year? I wouldn’t miss it.” Emily’s devotion was adorable, especially since the chess match was as choreographed as the joust we’d just watched. Twice a day, Captain Blackthorne fought against Marcus MacGregor, a giant of a man wearing little more than a kilt and knee-high boots and carrying a massive sword. And twice a day, Captain Blackthorne lost said fight. But Emily still cheered him on, every time.
I shook my head. “I’ll walk around a bit more, if you’ll forgive me.” I was too restless. The last thing I wanted to do was stand still and watch a show I’d seen so many times I could probably perform it myself.
Emily peered at me with shrewd eyes. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, yes.” I waved her off. “I’d simply like to take in the scenery a little while longer.”
“Of course.” She squeezed my arm in goodbye as Simon doffed his hat and gave me a friendly bow. “Meet you at pub sing, then.”
I had to laugh at that. Emily never made it up front for the farewell show of the day. But hope sprang eternal.
Alone now, I stowed my old necklace in my belt pouch, tied the green silk cord around my neck, and set off down the lane again, my long skirts kicking up dust. I took the long way around the perimeter of the site where we held Faire every year.
It was midafternoon and the sun was still high in the sky, but it felt like the sun was setting on the summer. Many of the shows had finished, but I passed a children’s magic show that was halfway through its set, and I stopped to listen to the magician’s patter for a few moments. Multicolored banners hung from the trees, catching the sunlight as they blew gently in the breeze. A couple of kids ran past me, headed for the lemonade stand. The sound of a tin whistle floated from somewhere nearby.
I ducked inside a booth displaying hand-tooled leather items, inhaling the heady scent. I’d walked by this booth several times but had never explored its contents. Inside, the wire-mesh walls were lined with leather goods—vambraces and belt pouches, as well as modern-day accessories like belts and wallets.
“All handmade,” the attendant said, not bothering with a fake accent. She was my age, dressed in low-key peasant garb: a long, dark green skirt and a loose chemise, pulled in with a leather waist cincher.
“Do you make all this?” I touched a soft blue backpack made of buttery leather that hung on the end of one display.
“My husband and I do, yes.” She bent down to scoop up a small toddler in a long chemise. Even the kids dressed period here at Faire. She turned to greet another patron who had ventured out of the sun and into the cool shade of the booth. But before she walked away she looked over her shoulder. “Anything you like, let me know. You’ll get the Rennie discount: Thirty percent off.”
“Oh. Thanks.” A warm feeling went through me at her words. Not at the discount, but at what it represented. She considered me one of them: one of the crew. With as much effort as I put into this Faire each summer, I’d never considered myself on the same level as the performers and the vendors who came through every year. They had their own culture, almost their own language, and I was on the outside looking in. After today these woods would be empty, while all the acts and vendors around me moved on to the next Faire, and it was a sharp pain to the heart. Like life was moving on, and I was being left behind. Sometimes I wished I was the one packing up and moving on. Sometimes I was tired of standing still.