I still didn’t like this guy, but that made an odd kind of sense. I didn’t realize I’d leaned forward to listen, my elbows on my crossed knees, until Stacey nudged me and handed me the diminished stack of papers. I took one and passed the rest to the teenager on my left.
“Now, Shakespeare disagrees,” Simon continued. “In Romeo and Juliet, he said ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ implying the essence of a thing doesn’t change just because it’s called something else.” He shrugged. “He makes a good point. But we humans are easily persuaded. We see commercials all the time. We buy the brand name of something instead of a generic, thinking it’ll be better quality, right?”
Something about the cadence of his voice was both familiar and comforting. He had a voice I wanted to keep listening to. That, combined with his obvious comfort in talking in front of a crowd of both teens and adults, not to mention the bit of Elizabethan literary criticism thrown in on a Saturday morning, made a lightbulb click on in my head.
I nudged Stacey again and nodded in Simon’s direction. “English teacher?” I kept my voice a low murmur; I didn’t want to distract him while he was on a roll.
She gave me a lopsided smile back and a confirming nod. “How’d you guess? The Shakespeare?”
“Kinda gave it away.”
“Did you have a question? Emily, right?”
Oh, shit. I turned innocent eyes at Simon, who faced me now, arms crossed over his chest. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, please.” Yep, he was definitely a teacher. He had a full-on why don’t you share with the rest of the class attitude, as though I were one of his students he’d caught passing a note. “What was your question?”
“Oh.” I thought fast. “I was wondering who’s playing Shakespeare. You?”
A couple people in the group tittered, but Simon looked like he was about to scowl. “No. We don’t have a Shakespeare in the cast.”
“But we could,” I argued. I don’t know why I let this guy get under my skin. Thirty seconds ago, I didn’t give a damn if we had a Bard of Avon wandering around or not, but the idea of it seemed to annoy Simon, so now I was all for it. “You said 1601, right? He was giving command performances of his plays for Queen Elizabeth around that time. She was a big fan, so it would stand to reason—”
“We don’t have a Shakespeare in the cast.” And the subject was closed. I was impressed; he had a grade-A Teacher Voice. But instead of giving me detention, he went back to addressing the rest of the group as though our conversation had never happened. “Most of us who are repeat offenders here have our names and identities pretty well established. But for those of you joining us for the first time this season, or if you thought your name last year didn’t fit, you’ve all got a list of names that fit the time period. Take a look, see if anything looks right. Feels right.”
Jeez. This whole thing took a quick left turn into culty. I’d been planning to coast through this: wear a cute costume and hang out in a bar so Caitlin could participate. I hadn’t intended to spend the next few months in some kind of live-action method-acting exercise. I stifled a sigh and looked down at the paper in my hands.
Thankfully, Simon didn’t make anyone stand in the middle. Instead, we went around the circle, where we each introduced ourselves by our real name as well as our chosen Faire name. The point of the exercise was probably for everyone to start to get to know each other. Instead, my blood pressure rose with every new voice that spoke, as my turn to talk inched closer and closer and I had no idea who my character was besides someone who served beer. The paper crumpled in my hand as I focused on Caitlin across the circle from me. She giggled at something one of her friends said, and seeing her that relaxed made something inside me relax too. I could do this.
Next to me on my right, Stacey spoke up. “Hey, everyone! I’m Stacey Lindholm, and this is my . . . oh, God, eighth year doing the Faire. Is that right? Can that be right?” She moaned dramatically. “Anyway, I started when I was in high school, as a singer, but now that I’m an adult—” A snort came from a few people down to my left, and Stacey tsked in that direction. “Shut up, Mitch. Now that I’m an adult, or once I hit twenty-one anyway, I moved over to being a wench. There are two of us this year.” She nudged me with her shoulder, and oh, shit, it was my turn.
But she wasn’t done yet. Simon cleared his throat. “I assume you’re keeping the same name?”
“Oh! Yes. Of course.” Suddenly Stacey slipped into a pretty good English accent and she drew herself up into a straighter posture. Before my eyes, she became a completely different person. “If you want to find me in the tavern, ask for Beatrice. That’ll be me.”
Would I need to have an English accent too? But I didn’t have time to worry about that, because it was my turn to speak.
“Hi!” I tried to smile, look friendly, and wave all at the same time. My smile came out as a kind of nervous exhale, probably showing too many teeth, and my wave looked like a dorky muscle spasm. “I’m Emily. Emily Parker. I’m new in town, so I’ve never done this before.”
“Don’t worry, Park. We’ll be gentle.” Mitch laughed at his own joke, and I snickered a little too, but my laugh was shut down by a forbidding-looking Simon.
“As Beatrice said, you’re a wench this year as well, right?” His question prodded me along, and I got the message. Stay on topic. I’d already pissed him off with the Shakespeare thing; I needed to behave.
“Right. Sorry. Yes. Yes, I am a wench with Stacey.”
“Beatrice.” He repeated the name, as though I were slow in understanding, and good Lord, I had no idea plain brown eyes could look like lasers. But Simon’s stare was about to burn a hole in my forehead.
“Yes,” I said. “Beatrice. Sorry. Again.” What was with this guy?
“And your name?”
“Emily.”
He sighed. “Yes. But your Faire name.”
“Oh . . . It’s . . .” I smoothed out the wrinkled paper in my hands, stalling for time. “I guess Shakespeare’s out, huh?” I chanced a look up at him, but the thunder in his expression told me that my jokes weren’t welcome here. “Fine, okay. I’ll be . . . ummm . . .” My eyes landed on a name. Easy. “Emma.”
“Emma.” His voice was flat.
“It’s period.” I pointed at the paper. “See, right there on the list. And I’ll remember to answer to it.”
Another short sigh. “Glad to see you’re putting a lot of thought into this.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but Simon turned to the teenager immediately to my left and made clear I had ceased to exist to him.