Temple could see how the numbing impact of an arrowhead in the back would hardly penetrate the adrenaline-driven concentration of a performer about to go onstage. She'd badly stubbed her toes on a metal plate backstage while rushing to make an entrance once. She'd gone on anyway, declaimed two pages' worth of light-comedy lines, and swept off laughing . . . only to collapse writhing and cursing sotto voce in the opposite wings, finally feeling the injury, or allowing herself to feel it.
And no fingerprints on the weapon. Whoever had snatched the arrow had thought to grab a makeshift hot pad to hold it. Picturing an actual oven mitt on the killer's upraised fist was such a laughable image that she chuckled.
She was still chuckling when she ran straight into another person.
"Oh, sorry!" Temple said.
"Goodness, girl, you ran right into my clipboard. You could have flattened yourself permanently,"
the woman added, frowning at Temple's bosom. "That would never do for a pose-down girl."
"You know who I am?"
"Not who, what. The only females your age back here before dress rehearsal are the lucky skinny young things who get to play cover model. Otherwise, only old bags like me hang around here."
"You're not an old bag!" Temple had always hated the term. "What's the clipboard for?"
"Oh, I don't even get to push, pull, prod and lace the laddies into their tight-fitting costumes. I'm the List Lady. Paperwork, not pant work, that's my specialty."
Temple laughed, but she was also thinking furiously. Her new acquaintance was a raw-boned woman in her late sixties wearing baggy jeans and a grass-stained Ohio U sweatshirt she had no doubt inherited from a grandson.
"Then you know who's paired with who for the pose-down?"
"Haven't you checked yet?" She raised eyebrows as wild and wispy as a cat's.
"I've been . . . busy elsewhere. I'm wearing an off-the-shoulder, lavender brocade gown."
"You must be Miss Melisande, then, the Medieval/Renaissance model. We give everyone quickie code names. You sure can't be Miss Kitty, that's the Wild West outfit, and that minx Lacey is Miss Odalisque."
Temple tried to peer over the top of the clipboard the woman was consulting, but she whisked it out of view.
"If you haven't bothered to find out," she said sternly, "it's too late now."
"No, it isn't. Look, can't I just see what costumes the guys might be wearing, so I could figure who I'm likely to work with?"
Her white hair, cropped close to her head, shimmied as she indicated no, but Temple edged to the side to read the paper clipped on top anyway.
"Oh, all the guys have little titles too," Temple cooed. "Such a clever idea."
"I can't have great long lines of costume description, can I, and still end up with one sheet for thirty-three guys? Here's one you might be a match for: Mr. Romeo."
"Renaissance Italy," Temple said, nodding. She peeked further down the roster. "And Mr.
Lancelot, that's mine. I imagine that some of these guys must be wearing gloves."
"Gloves? Whatever for?"
"Accurate period costume."
"In all my days as a pageant Wardrobe Witch, I have never heard anything so funny." She put her head back and roared, displaying a filling-free mouthscape of false teeth.
"No ... gloves?"
"No, my dear. They'd get in the way during the pose-down-- and, besides, the audience wants to see as much of the contestants as the law allows. Gloves don't quite fit the bill."
"Oh. I suppose mail gloves would be a little chilly." Temple shivered daintily.
"Don't you worry, Miss Melisande. No gloves, no gauntlets." The woman ran an expert eye up and down the two-column list. Then she frowned. "Except--"
"Except?"
"Well, he's way ahead of your period anyway, so I wouldn't worry."
"What period is he?"
"Viking raider. He goes with that ferrety girl in the see-through chiffon."
"But he wears gloves?"
"The only one, and only one glove, like Michael."
"Michael, that's his name?"
"No! Like Michael Jackson." The woman held up a fist, spread her fingers and pantomimed pulling on a glove. "Only his glove isn't white, it's black. Black leather. Because of the bird."
"The bird." Temple was really lost now.
"The bird. He's supposed to come on with this hawk on his wrist. So he needs the glove. Keeps it backstage, or rather that PR girl of his does, all hooded. Not her, the hawk. Kind of creepy. Haven't you noticed the cage?"
Temple shook her head numbly.
The costume lady smiled, certain and satisfied. "That's the only guy with a glove. The Birdman, so to speak. And he won't be in your vignette, not unless you move back a century or two, or he moves forward, and the pageant isn't a time-travel novel."
"Who?" Temple asked patiently.
"Who? Who what?"
"Who," she repeated, beginning to sound like another bird of prey, an owl, "who is dressing for pose-down as a Viking raider?"
"Why the big blond, of course. Fabrizio."
Fabrizio. Of course.
Chapter Interlude
It's Hystery!
Deadlines, deadlines.
That word is so appropriate for this convention of happy, dancing G.R.O.W.L.ers, now that someone has knocked one of those over advertised hunks out of the running.
But murder is not my game; romance is. I'll give those contest judges something to growl about. Now it's time to pull out all the stops and make some organ music here. Sensual scene, coming up! Millions, here I come. Ye old Demon Dagger had better get to it.
The Demon Dagger of Devonshire leaped into the carriage and ordered the bound and gagged driver to make haste to
Can that driver drive bound and gagged? Sure. Reins aren't much to hold, just some leather straps.
Where to? Ah . . .
Dover by morning!
"My relatives will hunt you down, Sir," the fair Arianiola warned, "for this impertinence."
"You will be sorry if they do."
"Oh, and why is that?"
"Because, my charming renegade, I am about to change your life, to sweep you to the stars."
With that, he
Just how far can we go here? Better scan a couple more sex scenes from some of these hot numbers over here. Let's see . . . talk, talk, talk . . . escape. . . more talk. . . servants talking -- hey, where s the boudoir business when you need it? You re falling down on the job, ladies. Come on, inspire me. A kiss, for three paragraphs? Get real. Okay, I'll show you how to do it.
With that, he grasped Ariania's shoulder and smashed her into his manly arms. Instantly she responded to the awesome masculine charisma that radiated from the muscular form of the Demon Dagger of Devonshire. She was a wildcat. She began purring and spitting in pretended disgust, but the Demon Dagger knew what effect his physique had on women of all kinds, from tavern wench to top-drawer duchess.
Soon she was gasping and undoing the buttons on his
Is it doublet in this period? Why not?
doublet. Meanwhile the Dagger thrust his powerful tongue into her mouth, causing her to moan.
And still the carriage driven by the bound and gagged driver drove on through the night, as lightning snarled in the sky and fireworks exploded on the cushions within.
Ariana had no chance. She was putty
Did they have putty then? Dont want to strain the judges' credulity here.
in his maddeningly sensuous hands, and soon he had worked her clothes into a lumpy pile on the carriage floor, as his own soon joined them, and they were joined in a jolting, mad dash over the moors.