Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

Faulk had a flashier booth than mine, more like an art nouveau wrought-iron gazebo, really, and cleverly designed to show off his ironwork as much as possible. You could assemble and disassemble it quickly with a few basic tools; it packed down into a surprisingly small space; and though it looked airy and delicate, I'd seen it weather high winds that had overturned far more solid and sturdy-looking booths. And, to my amazement, he'd managed to make both die booth and the small iron fence that defined the front of his space completely free of rough edges and points on which clumsy shoppers or rampaging children could cut or impale themselves.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked. I realized I was staring at Faulk's booth.

"I confess: I covet that booth," I said. "Not that particular booth, exactly, but I want one like it."

"I'm sure you could do something just as good," Michael said. "Even better."

"I'm sure I could, too," I said. "I helped make parts of his, ten years ago. I just haven't gotten a good idea, I don't want a clone of Faulk's booth; I want one that's as cool as his, but completely me."

"That's a great idea," Michael said. Did he really think it was a great idea, or was he just happy to see me showing some signs of professional rivalry with Faulk? Hard to tell.

Several tourists had stopped and were pointing up at Faulk's sign, which said, in old-fashioned lettering, WILLIAM FAULKNER CATES: blacksmith. They glanced into the booth, then stepped inside.

"Got 'em!" I said.

"What?" Michael said.

"It's half the battle, you know, getting them to enter the booth. Watch the way people walk down the aisles, staring into booths, and trying to keep from putting even one toe across the invisible line between the aisle and the booth."

"Because if they step in, there's more pressure to buy?"

"Exactly. Same thing if they catch the booth-owner's eye. They try to look at what you're showing without looking at your face or stepping one inch inside your booth. So one of the tricks is to have something that makes them want to come inside."

"Like Faulk's booth."

"Exactly."

Or Faulk himself, for that matter. I caught sight of my blacksmithing teacher, standing in the back of his booth, talking to two customers. Female customers, of course; Faulk drew more female traffic than any other ironworker I knew. Three other customers, ostensibly inspecting various bits of the booth and its contents, were actually staring through the wrought-iron grillwork at Faulk when they thought no one was looking.

And he was worth staring at. He was well over six feet tall with the patrician, blond, blue-eyed good looks people seem to expect from old southern families and the muscular body they more logically expect to see on a blacksmith. He was dressed very simply, in plain blue breeches and a homespun shirt with the sleeves carelessly rolled up; but then Faulk looked good in almost anything.

"Meg!" he cried, when he saw me, excusing Tiimself from die customers with a smile and coming over to give me a hug. I could almost feel the hostile stares of the customers, and Michael didn't look all that thrilled, either.

"I can't stay long," I said.

"We'll catch up tonight at the party, then."

"I just wanted to show you the dagger. I thought it would be risky bringing that to the party."

"At one of your family's parties, butter knives and plastic forks would be risky," Faulk said. "Will there be croquet, or has some alert public-safety agency finally intervened?"

"We're not entirely sure croquet's in period," I said. "But mere may be lawn bowling, if we can find anyone who knows the rules."

"I can't wait," Faulk said, sounding insincere. "So let's see the thing."

I unwrapped my dagger and handed it over, hilt first. Faulk took it in his left hand and extended a finger toward the blade.

"Careful, it's sharp," I warned out of habit.

"You'd better hope it's sharp, girl, or I'm sending you back to the whetstone." He tested the grip, then shifted the knife to his other hand and tested again.

"Nicely balanced," he said, nodding. "And I'm impressed that you managed to make it fit so well in either hand. Not easy with an asymmetrical design."

No, it wasn't. I kept my face neutral, as he stepped out into the sunlight in the front area of his booth, held the hilt up close to his face, and scrutinized the body of the falcon that formed it, occasionally touching a questioning finger to a detail. And while he examined every inch of the blade, whose finish shone in the sunlight with a cool lunar glow, I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. Then he gripped the hilt again and tossed the knife lightly from hand to hand.

"Not bad," he said, walking back toward us.

Suddenly, in one of those lightning motions that always seemed so improbable in a man his size, Faulk slashed downward with the knife, embedding the point deep in the display table and sending one middle-aged woman out of the booth shrieking in terror. The other women watched with open-mouthed fascination, and I suspected Faulk and my dagger would inhabit their erotic fantasies for months to come.

"Not bad at all," he said, stepping back from the table and grinning at me.

"Subtle, Faulk," I said, and began struggling to pry the knife out of the wood. I had to wiggle it back and forth half a dozen times. But I wasn't exactly displeased. If I'd done a bad job on the knife – used the wrong grade of steel, gotten the fire too hot or not hot enough, spent too much or too little time hammering it out, or made any one of a hundred other mistakes during the months I'd been working on it – the blade would have been flawed, too weak to take the beating Faulk had just given it.

"You'll make a swordsmith yet," he said.

"Thanks," I said, trying not to look too flattered.

"Well, I suppose we'd both better get back to business," Faulk said. "I'll see you both at the party, then."

"Right – oh, Faulk," I said. "I wanted to warn you – I'm afraid something's happened that upset Tad a bit."

I described Tad's encounter with Benson. Luckily, while Faulk was obviously concerned, he didn't seem to be losing his temper.

"The man's a total weasel," he said. "Your brother can't really be thinking of selling him the game, can he?"

"If Benson tried to steal CraftWorks, I can't imagine Rob will," I said. "No possibility that Tad's overreacting? Or that Benson's just the fall guy and someone else did the dirty work?"

Faulk shook his head.

"I'll tell Rob, then," I said.

"I wish Tad hadn't flown off the handle," Faulk said. "Added more fuel to die legal fire."

"What legal fire?"

"Tad's been pretty outspoken about what Benson's done to him, and he's trying to get people to boycott their products. Benson's slapped him with a huge lawsuit. Slander, libel, defamation of character, restraint of trade – you name it."

"It won't hold up in court, though, will it?" I asked. "I mean, if the guy really has done all this."

"It won't hold up in court if it ever gets to court, but I'm not sure we can afford to go on with it," Faulk said. "Benson seems to have all the money in the world to file countersuits and motions, and frankly we're already in debt up to our eyeballs. Don't cross the guy, whatever you do."

He returned to waiting on customers, and Michael and I headed back to my booth.

"Well," he said, after a while. "Your knife's a success."

"Yeah," I said. "And don't you feel better, now that you don't have to feel jealous of Faulk?"

He considered that a moment.

"Not a whole lot," he said. "Faulk's not the problem."

"Could have fooled me."

"He's not; not a big part anyway. It's the whole situation."

I closed my eyes and sighed.

"I mean, here we are, supposedly spending the weekend together, only you're spending every waking minute in your booth."

"While you're off drilling with your regiment," I countered.

"I didn't realize you were thinking of this as a way to spend time together. I thought we were helping make your mother's project a success."

"Well, yes," he said. "But – I thought we'd have more time together."

"You're welcome to spend all day in the booth with me," I said.

"Gee, thanks."

"You don't even have to work; just look decorative and amuse me. I don't think they'd let me into your regiment, even if I had a uniform. I'd flunk the physical."

"The problem's not this weekend," Michael said. "The problem's every weekend. If you'd just try moving to Caerphilly. We don't have to live together if that bothers you, but if you could just try living someplace nearby. I'd move up to northern Virginia if I could, except I have to be near the college; you can do your iron working anywhere."

"Not anywhere," I protested. "I couldn't do it in your apartment, for heaven's sake; I'd burn the place down."

"We could find a place," he said. "Someplace this side of Caerphilly; we could find a place for half the rent you pay in northern Virginia, and you'd be closer to your family."

"Closer to my family?" I echoed. "I thought you were trying to talk me into moving, not scare me off."

"Okay," he said, smiling. "The other side of Caerphilly if you'd rather. What's wrong with that idea?"

"Nothing, really," I began. "Except I want to – "

"Say no to corruption!" a voice screeched into my ear.

I started, and nearly dropped my knife.