Holding Court (2 page)

Chapter Two

Tudor Times

O
ne of the reasons I so desperately need a job is so I can buy a car, but since I don’t have a car there are only so many jobs I can get to. It’s a tragic paradox that could seriously scar my entire high school career.

“It has to be something in Lunevale,” I tell Cami the next morning when she barges into our kitchen and finds me looking through the help wanted ads in the local paper. Cami lives next door and spends as much time as possible at our house in order to avoid her own family, which is inordinately loud and exuberant. Much like Cami herself, who, according to Gran, has more dazzle than a disco ball. Mom and I moved into Gran’s huge, old, Pepto-Bismol-pink Victorian after my parents’ divorce and have been here ever since. My dad stayed in San Francisco and is usually too busy digging up mummies to be a decent dad. He’s way more interested in dead people than he is in the living. Which is probably why my mom left him, despite the fact that he has this whole Indiana Jones thing going on.

“I have to be able to get there on my bike or the bus,” I say. “Since having your driver’s license obviously means nothing around this place.” I give Mom a pointed look. She actually
laughed
when I asked if I was getting a car for my sixteenth birthday.

Mom puts down her coffee and looks at her watch. “I’d better go finish packing. I’ll be at the shop most of the day. I need to go over a few things with Dee before I leave tonight.” She kisses me on the head and goes upstairs.

Gran lowers her
People
magazine. “You’re welcome to use Rosie,” she offers.

Cami and I look at each other, and I roll my eyes. Rosie is a major part of the reason I need a job in the first place. I refuse to drive my grandmother’s hot-pink golf cart to school next year.

“Uh, thanks, Gran, but I think I’ll pass on the golf cart.”

Gran huffs and looks offended. “Rosie is not a golf cart, she’s a Neighborhood Electric Vehicle.”

“What’s the difference? She still can’t go on the highway.”

“Suit yourself. You can take the back roads, you know.”

“I’d
have
to take the back roads, Gran. Rosie only goes twenty-five miles per hour.”

“Well, what do you need to go faster for? No one can read my signs if you go too fast.”

Did I mention that Rosie, the hot-pink golf cart, is plastered with ads for Gran’s matchmaking business, An Aura of Romance?

“And you can park right up front in those special electric vehicle spaces like they have at the Target.”

“Tempting, but I’d rather risk the sweaty helmet hair and ride my bike.” Helmet hair or hot-pink golf cart. I seriously need a car, ASAP.

“No way!” Cami grabs my highlighter and circles an ad. “Check it out, there’s a listing for Tudor Times. And it couldn’t be more perfect.” She holds up the newspaper.

HELP WANTED: Do you have the gift of visions? Tudor Times, Candor County’s newest must-see destination, is looking for a dynamic, outgoing individual to add to our Castle Team. We’re currently seeking a female performer to portray the character of the Maid of Kent. Duties include wearing an appropriate period costume and performing psychic readings for Castle Guests. No experience necessary.

I look at Cami. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Come on, it’s like it was written for you! You can do your Psychic Tourette’s thing without having to worry about getting fired. Plus that King Henry guy is the owner and he obviously has the hots for your mom, so you know he’s going to hire you.”

“He’s not going to hire me, because there’s no way I’m applying for it.”

Instead of arguing with me, Cami whips out her phone and punches in a number. “Hello, I’m calling about your ad in the
Lunevale Gazette
?”

I make a grab for the phone, but she jumps off her chair and backs away, wiggling her fingers at me. “Yes, I’m very interested in the psychic job. One thirty? That would be perfect. My name’s Juliet Verity. I’ll be there at one thirty. Thank you so much.”

“What the hell?” I say to Cami after she hangs up.

“You’ll thank me for this, trust me.” Cami gives me a smug grin and sits back down. “A bunch of kids from Lunevale High are working there this summer.”

“So?”

“So, one of them happens to be Grayson Chandler.”

“And?” I feign total indifference, but the truth is the mere mention of his name gives me palpitations.

Cami closes the newspaper and starts counting on her fingers. “Number one, you need a job. Number two, Grayson Chandler. Number three, you finally get to see the inside of Lunewood Castle, and number four, you get to dress up in a fancy Tudor gown that is bound to give you fabulous cleavage. Ergo, you’re an idiot if you don’t take the job.”

“Number one”—I hold up a finger, too, the middle one—“I do not have the ‘gift of visions,’ I have an involuntary blurting disorder, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is something I’ve been trying to suppress for years. Number two, Grayson Chandler has a girlfriend, and do I really need to remind you of my history with Grayson and castles? Number three, if I want to see the inside of Lunewood Castle all I have to do is buy a ticket to Tudor Times. And number four, I don’t think it’s possible for me to have cleavage regardless of what I’m wearing.”

“Whatever. You know you want to see Grayson dressed up like a knight, looking all Prince Charming.” She gives me a wicked grin. “I bet he has a really big sword.”

“Oh, shut up. I hate you.”

“I believe my work here is done. I’m out. Don’t forget, one thirty. Say hello to Prince Charming for me!”

“Well, that sounds promising, dear,” Gran says, looking up from her perusal of the red carpet trend report. “It’s about time you put your talents to good use. And I’m not talking about the cleavage.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

“Seriously? You think I should take a job giving fake fortunes to a bunch of tourists at a cheesy castle?”

“Who says they have to be fake?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have control over my ‘gift,’ Gran.”

“No, you don’t have the ability to shut it off. You might be able to learn some control if you embraced your gift instead of trying so hard to tamp it down.”

“Embrace what? All I ever do is blurt out ridiculous, meaningless, or crucially embarrassing stuff. Why would I want to do that more often? I get into enough trouble as it is. I’ve been fired from every job I’ve ever had, including my volunteer job at the library—which is beyond pathetic—been suspended from school for my outbursts in class, and, depending on how you feel about circus sideshows, am considered either a freak or a hilarious spectacle by the population at large. It’s not a gift. It’s a curse. Why can’t I do something that’s actually useful like you and mom?”

“I suppose that depends on how you define ‘useful.’”

“Oh, whatever. I’m going to go pout in my room.”

I
flop down on my bed, pull on my headphones, and choose something appropriately morose to listen to. Then I close my eyes and find myself imagining Grayson Chandler in tights. Something I’ve done probably daily since he moved to Lunevale five years ago. Which isn’t as weird as it sounds since he showed up for the first day of school in a
Princess Bride
T-shirt and he had the same floppy hair and shy smile as Westley, the hottest tights-wearing farm boy/pirate in cinematic history. When Grayson turned out to be as funny as he was dreamy, I was a total goner. So was almost every other girl at Lunevale Elementary.

On the day I finally summoned up the guts to talk to Grayson, I ended up getting suspended from school. It was a misunderstanding involving a math test and one of my psychic flashes, but Grayson has avoided me like the plague ever since. He also happens to have the most perfect girlfriend in the world, so there’s no way he’d be interested in me even if I weren’t a total freak. Bree Blair is so perfect you can’t even hate her properly.

And while Grayson purposely avoids me, Bree goes out of her way to be nice to me. When we were younger, she never made fun of my uncontrollable outbursts and gave hell to any kid who did. She once made Josh Gaddis eat his Batman eraser after he snuck up behind me in the cafeteria, yelled, “You’re going to use a number two pencil when you take your test today!” and made me spill chocolate milk down the front of my favorite sweater. She’d been one of my best friends until about seventh grade. Which is when things got super awkward. As Bree was blossoming into the most popular girl in school, I was becoming a candidate for biggest freak. Plus it was torture to watch Grayson gaze at her so adoringly; everyone else was clearly extraneous when they were together.

So, yeah, the only thing worse than being in love with someone who is in love with someone else, is being in love with someone who is in love with someone else who is a thousand times more perfect than you can ever hope to be.

But despite the utter lack of romantic possibilities, I am apparently incapable of passing up the chance to ogle a tights-wearing Grayson Chandler from afar, because just before one thirty I find myself cursing Cami under my breath as I pedal into the staff parking lot at Tudor Times.

Chapter Three

The Maid of Kent

I
find a place to lock my bike and attempt to revive my helmet hair before reporting for my interview. I’ve never been inside the famed Lunewood Castle before, although I snuck onto the grounds once with Cami on a dare. Up until last year it had been owned by old Mrs. Lune, whose husband’s grandfather had the castle shipped over stone by stone from his ancestral homeland as a gift for his bride. The whole marriage thing hadn’t turned out so well for the original Mr. Lune, who was rumored to be a pervy nutjob, but the castle was pretty amazing.

Old Mrs. Lune had come into my mom’s antique shop once, but I’d scared her off when I blurted something about not being afraid of alligators and hot pants. Mom was seriously peeved, considering how much money Mrs. Lune has to spend on Fabergé ashtrays.

Anyway, after refusing offers from interested buyers for years, last year Mrs. Lune had suddenly decided to retire to Florida. She sold Lunewood Castle to Hank Bacon, aka King Henry, an über-wealthy Tudor fanatic who, according to the internet research I’d done in preparation for my interview, had made his millions by inventing some sort of hemorrhoid gel. Hank apparently had a thing for Henry VIII and thought everyone else should, too, because he’d decided to turn Lunewood Castle into a Tudor-themed tourist attraction.

Tudor Times had opened a few months ago, and the citizens of Lunevale were pretty much split down the middle on how they felt about it. The half that liked the idea saw job opportunities and tourist dollars; the half that didn’t griped about the fact that the castle had been bought by a nutcase with a Tudor obsession. But since “nutcase with a Tudor obsession” also described the original Mr. Lune, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about, especially since most of Lunevale gets off on being Quirky Town, USA. Plus, Hank Bacon had opened the castle to anyone who was willing to pay the price of admission, whereas the Lunes had been notoriously snooty.

All
I
want from Tudor Times is the chance to make some money and to ogle Grayson Chandler from afar. And possibly wear a sumptuous gown that gives me awesome cleavage.

Lunewood Castle sits on a hill overlooking Lune Valley and is everything you’d expect a castle to be, right down to the lily pads floating in the moat. I follow the hedge-lined gravel path that leads from the parking lot to the rear of the castle and pass a small courtyard in which a bunch of sweaty guys in tights are thwacking each other around with wooden practice swords. As I’m craning to see if one of them is Grayson, I run smack into someone’s sweaty chest.

“Excuse me, milady,” Sweaty Chest says, grabbing my arms to keep me from falling.

I look up at his face and make a sound between a whimper and a sigh. It’s Grayson Chandler, and he looks like he just stepped out of one of my
Princess Bride
fantasies. His brown hair is perfectly tousled, and he has on a flowy white shirt with a slit down the front that exposes his chest and a hint of his infamous abs. I look into his mesmerizing green eyes and instead of saying something spectacularly witty like, “Is that your sword or are you just happy to see me?” I blurt, “The Hepplewhite hides the boogers!” Then I tear myself out of his grip and run the rest of the way to the castle without looking back.

I pull open the door marked
Servant’s Entrance
and take a second to catch my breath. I’m leaning over with my hands on my knees when an enormous pair of embroidered white leather Mary Janes steps into my line of vision. I look up to see a crusty old guy dressed in a red uniform with a poufy skirt and white tights giving me the eagle eye. He only has one; the other is covered with a black leather eye patch.

“May I be of service, milady?”

“Um, sure,” I say. “I’m Juliet Verity. I have an interview at one thirty for the Maid of Kent position?”

“Maid of Kent, eh?” he says. “So, she finally got caught, what-what?”

“Pardon me?”

“You’ll be wanting to go to the King’s study, Mistress Verity. The stairs are at the end of the hallway.” He points me in the right direction.

“Thanks, uh…” I pause, waiting for him to tell me his name.

“Floyd. Floyd Bean. But most folks call me the Keeper.”

“Okay then, uh, Mr. Bean…Keeper. I’d better get to my interview.” I have the sudden feeling of pressure in my head and chest that tells me my PTS is about to strike. I bolt for the stairs, anxious to get away from the Keeper and his creepy one-eyed stare before I say something I’ll more than likely regret.

“Was there something else, Mistress Verity?”

I shake my head, but it’s too late. “Stop, or you’ll feel the maiden’s embrace!” I yell.

I don’t wait for the Keeper to respond.

When I get to the second floor, a woman in a beautiful Tudor gown directs me to Hank’s office. I knock on the heavy wooden door and a booming voice responds, “Prithee enter!”

I open the door to find King Henry sitting behind a large wooden desk. He’s using an old-fashioned feathered quill to write something, but puts it down when he sees me.

He looks at me with some surprise and, I think, confusion. “Mistress Verity?” he says, reaching a hand up to scratch his robust beard.

“That’s me, uh, Your Majesty,” I’m not sure what the protocol is so I drop a curtsy and then feel stupid for doing so. I’m wearing a vintage 1950s polka-dot dress I found on the last thrifting trip I went on with Mom. With my Bettie Page hair and cherry-red lip gloss, I stick out like a sore thumb in Lunewood Castle. But then, so does the laptop I spy on the corner of Hank’s desk. I’m not sure what the Tudor equivalent might be. An abacus?

“Please, be seated, Mistress Verity. Am I to understand you are interested in portraying the Maid of Kent?”

I nod.

“I must confess, I believe a few curious things are now beginning to make sense.”

“Oh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“The fact that you have the gift of visions. Or do you know Angelique personally?”

“Angelique?”

“The current Maid of Kent, the woman whose position you would be filling while she is on maternity leave.”

“Oh, uh, no. I’ve never met her. I’ve never been to Tudor Times before, actually.”

“Indeed? Then I suppose we can dispense with the question of your abilities.”

“We can?”

He grins at me. “I believe you proved yourself in your mother’s shop. How is Lady Anna, by the way? It was indeed a pleasure meeting you both yesterday.”

“She’s getting ready to leave for Paris. Which is why I’m out of a job for the summer.”

“I see. Do you have any experience performing in front of large groups? Your duties as the Maid of Kent would include being part of the dinner entertainment for the castle guests.”

“Oh. Um, I went to theater camp in junior high?” I don’t tell him that, against my better judgment, Cami had coerced me into signing up, and I’d blown my first audition when I burst a blood vessel in my eyeball trying to keep myself from blurting that Sidney Barlow was going to start riding the crimson wave in the middle of the balcony scene in
Romeo and Juliet
. I ended up being given the job of prompter. I was supposed to follow along in the script and help the actors if they forgot their lines. Which is a ridiculously inappropriate job for someone with a blurting problem. I’d lasted one dress rehearsal.

“Fair enough. Why don’t we start you out on a trial basis? Angelique will give you a tour of the castle and go over the position with you. I suggest you shadow her for a day or two and then see if you’re ready to try your hand at it. You will be provided with an appropriate costume as well as a dossier on your character. I ask that you keep all evidence of the twenty-first century hidden from the castle guests. If you have a cell phone, please store it in your assigned cupboard in the Great Wardrobe at the beginning of your shift. What do you say, Mistress Verity? Shall we start you today?”

“Um, it sounds great but…I feel like I should warn you that my, uh, ‘gift of visions’ is kind of unpredictable. Sometimes…well, really, most of the time, I blurt things out without meaning to and they’re not always…what people want to hear,” I confess.

“Not everyone wants to know what their nun is up to, eh?” he says, then throws his head back and does his Santa Claus laugh.

I’m starting to think he’s completely bonkers when I remember my blurt from yesterday.

“I warrant you will do just fine, Mistress Verity. Lucky for you, the Maid of Kent was a total nutter. The guests will assume anything you say is part of the show.” He stands up and reaches for the ornate pocket watch hanging from a chain around his waist. “Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare for today’s guests. You’ll find the Great Wardrobe downstairs in the southeast corner of the castle. Tell Geoffrey, the Master of the Wardrobe, you are to be the new Maid of Kent. He will provide you with a costume for today.” He steers me toward the door. “Once you’re dressed, you can report for duty in the Oratory on the upper floor of the Rose Tower. Good luck,
Mistress Verity.”

“Uh, thanks, Your Majesty. See you around,” I say and scurry out the door.

I make a clandestine phone call to Gran to let her know I’m giving the Maid of Kent thing a go and won’t be home for a while. Then I make my way downstairs and through the winding stone hallways to the costume shop, aka the Great Wardrobe, where I meet Geoffrey. He’s immaculately dressed in a white Tudor-style jacket with lace at the neck and sleeves, and huge poufy red pants that resemble a pair of scarlet pumpkins. He’s also sporting a low ponytail, a black leather fanny pack, and an enormous pair of scissors.

I tell him who I am and he puts down the scissors. He grabs a tissue and hands it to me. “Lose the eyeliner and the lip gloss. You need to look as natural as possible.” He watches while I wipe off the offending makeup, then goes to one of the wooden cupboards that line the far wall. He rummages inside, then hands me a folded stack of black fabric and points me toward one of the curtained stalls that serve as dressing rooms.

“It’s pretty self-explanatory. Get dressed and I’ll show you how to do the wimple.”

“Um, okay,” I say. What the hell is a wimple?

“Just holler if you need help,” he says, and I pull the dressing room curtain shut.

I take off my polka-dot dress, then unfold the pile of black fabric and discover a T-shaped black dress with an extra flap of fabric over the chest in the front and another in the back. “Um, I think there’s been a mistake,” I call to Geoffrey. Where the hell is my cleavage-inducing Tudor gown? I knew this job sounded too good to be true.

Geoffrey yanks open the dressing room curtain and I drop the black sack dress and try to cover my bra and underwear with my arms. I start to get that weird feeling of pressure that means I’m about to have a PTS moment. In my underwear, in front of a strange man I’ve just met. “The cabbage is only the beginning!” I yell and wait for Geoffrey to respond since there’s nothing else I can do. He’s blocking my exit and, oh yeah, I’m in my underwear.

Geoffrey stares at me, and I can almost see him decide to go with pretending I haven’t said anything. Which tends to be the most popular choice of people I verbally assault. He looks down at the crumpled black dress.

“Oh, I forgot to give you a shift. Hang on.”

He disappears and comes back a moment later with a long white nightgown-looking thing that he gathers up and plops over my head. I stick my arms into the sleeves as the fabric falls to my ankles. He picks up the pile of black linen. “The scapular’s attached, so the whole garment goes on at once,” Geoffrey says, and over the shift it goes. He finishes adjusting the dress and I turn to look at myself in the mirror. I look like I’m wearing a tent, complete with a door flap in front.

“Wow,” I say. “Aren’t I supposed to wear a sumptuous gown or something?”

“For the Maid of Kent? Hardly. What size shoe do you wear? I’ll get you some boots. You’re not allergic to wool, are you?”

I shake my head, still trying to process what I’m seeing in the mirror.

“Good. You’ll need stockings and a leather belt, and then I’ll show you how to attach the wimple and veil.”

Even before I see the wimple I’m fairly certain I’m going to kill Cami for coming up with the whole Ogle-Grayson-Chandler-From-Afar scheme.

She could not have been more wrong about both the cleavage and the gown I will be sporting. To my utter mortification I discover that the Maid of Kent was a
nun
.