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wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œShe touched it,” Amber Lee said.
    â€œIt itches,” Carol said.
    â€œCome on back to camp,” I said. “They may not have running water, but we’re going to have to wash that somehow.”
    â€œLook!” Opie said. “She really did find it. Someone’s been digging here.” She pointed her flashlight down at the recently overturned dirt.

Chapter 5

    â€œI am so stupid,” Carol whined as I poured more water over her hand. “You warned us not to touch it. And what do I go and do?”
    A few of the reenactors were giving me the stink-eye, probably because I was depleting their precious water supply at a fantastic rate. I’d probably get mad, too, if I had to carry all my water over a mile to the camp. But it couldn’t be helped.
    The rash on Carol’s hand looked ugly, but she didn’t know—because I didn’t want to alarm her—that I was secretly taking her pulse while I poured water over those hands. Her heart rate was mildly elevated, but not erratic. That and the rash and the self-loathing seemed to be the limits of her reaction.
    I also experienced a measure of self-loathing. This girl was barely past her teen years. And within hours of meeting me, she was running around in the dark trying to find a poisonous plant just because I’d asked her to.
    Opie put her hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t make any of us go.”
    â€œDid I say that out loud?”
    Opie smiled. “No, but I know you by now.”
    The advancing sun washed over the encampment with milky whiteness. A rooster crowed.
    Bixby and Amber Lee stepped back into the clearing. Bixby held a cluster of monkhood plants, with their turnip-like roots, in one gloved hand, while he tried to suppress a sneeze with the other. Amber Lee gave me a thumbs-up.
    Bixby blinked hard against the approaching sneeze, then relaxed and sniffed. “Is she all right?”
    I nodded.
    â€œLook,” he said, “when I told you to find the murder weapon . . .”
    Welcome to the self-loathing party. Instead of saying this, I sent him a reassuring smile. “She’s all right. We’re all okay, and now you likely have the murder weapon.”
    He returned the smile, but our touching Kodak moment was interrupted by trumpets.
    Bixby jumped a foot. I might have bested him by three inches.
    Soon the crowd which had gathered around parted and a regal figure appeared. By regal figure, I mean he wore a literal crown and a lavish medieval outfit in jewel-tone satin and gold. Several reenactors bowed low to the ground as he approached.
    â€œYou’d better bow,” Carol said. “It’s King Arthur.”
    I did my requisite bow, then whispered, “He’s playing King Arthur? The whole round-table bit?”
    â€œWell, he’s king this year, and his name is literally Arthur. So he’s King Arthur. I think his last name is Schwartz. Dr. Schwartz. He’s a dentist.”
    I bit back a remark about him being used to pricy crowns.
    Dr. Arthur Schwartz stopped when he reached Bixby and gave him a look up and down in that regal “I am not amused” manner.
    Bixby didn’t bow, didn’t flinch, didn’t look like he had any inclination to. “May I help you?” he said instead.
    King Arthur’s face flushed (would that be a royal flush?) and his jowly jaws tightened. I half expected him to yell, “Off with his head!”
    Instead, he turned to one of the men with him. “I don’t want to see any more mundanes in camp. We allowed the cameras, that’s enough. Anyone who wants to remain will need to dress in a manner which respects the kingdom.” He waved his hand with a flourish, as if he were signing his decree into law.
    Then he turned to me. “I hear you’ve been using all of our fresh water.”
    â€œIt was an