The Reckless Oath We Made

He’d told me not to call, but maybe he was worried about his phone line being tapped. Maybe his phone line was tapped. Ours had been for years after Dad went to prison. One more reason not to have a landline.

I closed the phone app and opened my browser to check a few news sites, but they were rehashing what I already knew. They’d dug up some new photos, including one of those portrait studio shots. They’d blurred out Loudon and Marcus, but there was LaReigne with a big smile on her face. I don’t know why I kept looking, burning up my data, knowing that eventually I’d stumble across the video of Mom being loaded into the ambulance. At the end of the news clip, Gentry stepped in from the left of the screen and put his hand over the reporter’s camera lens.

All I was doing was sitting around feeling helpless, so I got up and got dressed. The braids Elana had put in my hair had come halfway out, so I took them the rest of the way out, but didn’t bother trying to comb the mess. I stepped outside and looked around at what I hadn’t been able to make out in the dark. The tent was surrounded by trees with a fire ring about twenty feet away, and the ice chest was strung up between two trees, to keep it away from animals, I guessed. In the night, I’d thought we were hiking over rough terrain to get there, but in daylight, I could see there was a trail that led back down to the main camp.

I followed the path, and found Rosalinda beside the fire, stirring something in a pot. Last night, I’d thought she was wearing a nightgown, but now I could see it was some kind of Ren Faire outfit. A long dress under a bustier, and a head scarf. She stood up and waved at me.

“Good morrow, Lady Zhorzha.”

“Hi. Is Gentry around?”

“Sir Gentry, as he is known, hath gone a’hunting with mine husband, Sir Edrard. They shall return anon. What strange garb ye do wear. If ye would care to dress in a manner more suited, Sir Gentry hath provided garments for ye.”

I stared at her for a couple seconds, thinking Oh shit. We’re going full-on Medieval Times. I was used to the way Gentry talked, but she sounded like she was auditioning for a cheesy movie with her fake English accent. He didn’t sound like he was acting at all. He sounded sincere.

I must have spent too long staring at Rosalinda, because next thing I knew she was coming at me with this big wad of fabric. The whole getup was three layers deep, and it didn’t look much like hers, so apparently we were time travelers from different centuries. It started with a long white sleeveless thing like a nightgown, and over that went a long-sleeved dress that laced up the back. On top of that was another sleeveless dress that was half apron, half douchebag gym-rat T-shirt with the armholes cut out big. I couldn’t figure out what to do with the dress sleeves, because they flapped open when I moved my arms. While I was standing there trying to find a way to cuff them back, Rosalinda brought out a needle and thread, and sewed me into the dress from my wrists to my elbows.

“Thank you for, uh, loaning me some clothes,” I said. Never mind I had my own clothes that she’d more or less forced me to take off out in broad daylight.

“Nay, lady. Sir Gentry had this cotehardie made for ye and of the very best quality.”

Honestly, it spooked me a little. There was a time when Gentry could have legit planned to invite me for his Camelot camping adventure, but that window was small and long past. He’d been waiting two years for this, or he’d made plans on the off chance that someday he would need to rescue me. It made LaReigne’s joke about him being my stalker less funny, and it hadn’t been that funny to begin with.

I managed what I hoped looked like a smile, because what else was I going to do? In Wichita I was homeless, and at least here, Gentry was making decisions for me. Even if he was a stalker, he wasn’t a creep. Creeps didn’t let you sleep unmolested in their tents while they slept outdoors. My creep ex-brother-in-law didn’t even let me sleep on his couch without trying to mess with me.

I spent the morning hanging out with Rosalinda, making half-hearted efforts to participate in what she called huswifery. I stirred a pot over the fire that smelled like nasty soup but turned out to be soap. Then I helped hem a dress, which was about a million stitches and made my fingertips raw. At first the whole situation was like a hell dimension of camping and home economics, but after a while it was soothing. Plus Rosalinda seemed super happy about me being there.

“I confess it, lady. We did betime wonder if ye weren’t a fancy of Sir Gentry’s imagination. To see ye art real, ’tis a delight. I hope ye will come again.”

“Well, it’s complicated.” That seemed to be my go-to for Gentry, but I didn’t want to embarrass him by telling his friends we weren’t dating, if they thought we were. I settled for: “We’ll see if he invites me again.”

“Sooth, ’tis a joy to have another lady to while the time with,” Rosalinda said.

“Do they usually just leave you here?”

“Oh, ay. There are ladies who enjoy the knightly life, but I am not inclined to tromp after the lads upon the hunt.”

I was 99 percent sure she didn’t mean “hunt” literally—like the way LaReigne called grocery shopping “foraging”—right up until Gentry walked into camp carrying a rabbit and three pheasants. He was dressed up all Ren Faire, too. A big poofy blouse with a vest over it, a pair of pants that only came to his knees, and soft leather boots that came up over his ankles. Seeing me by the fire in my huswife getup, I think he didn’t know what to do. He waited until Edrard caught up with him before he came to the fire.

“I see ye have had a successful hunt,” Rosalinda said, and then in this straight-up medieval Peg Bundy voice: “More so than mine own husband.”

Edrard rolled his eyes and ducked into Mud Manor, which by then I knew was their house. That was why Gentry had a pavilion.

“For a common meal among friends,” Gentry said, as he took off what he had slung over his back, which was a goddamn bow and a bag of arrows.

“You seriously killed three pheasants and the Easter bunny with a bow and arrows?” I said. Gentry looked down at his homemade instruments of death. Was he embarrassed?

“Oh, ay. Sir Gentry is a skilled hunter,” Rosalinda said.

“I’m impressed.” I really was. Less so with the actual dead things, but that he’d got them dead with arrows. I was even more impressed that he was the one who cleaned them, brought them back to the fire without their fur and feathers, and put them on a spit to roast. I’d worried that might turn out to be huswifery, and I didn’t want to skin and gut a rabbit. My people are citified white trash. We’re more familiar with opening dented cans of off-brand Spam from the food bank than skinning varmints.

Once the animal parts were cooking, Rosalinda put some actual soup on to cook, and Gentry chopped up some vegetables. I hoped it would turn out to be edible, because I’d apparently time traveled too late in the day to get breakfast.