intend to be rude,” I said. “I’ve just never seen a falcon up close before. She is a little intimidating.” A
little
? That was an understatement. “She’s beautiful, though. Again, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” The falcon’s handler blew out a breath. “I’ve been feeling defensive of her all afternoon. Many people around here—in particular, an old lady with a bunny rabbit—didn’t seem to like Herodias—and she’s a good girl.” She looked at the bird. “Aren’t you?”
Herodias’s gaze never wavered.
I felt a stab of guilt. I, too, had judged Herodias on the basis of her looks alone . . . and the fact that her namesake was wicked.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Wait. The woman with the rabbit—was her name Clara?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“I’m afraid so. If it’s any consolation, she doesn’t like Angus or me, either.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why she hates me, but she seems to think Angus will kill the bunny—even though the two of them love playing together.”
“He’s a pretty dog.” She inclined her head. “Will you be bringing him with you to the Faire?”
“I’d intended to, but now that I’m seeing everything, I’m afraid it might be too much for him to handle, especially once the food vendors get cooking.”
“That’s true. Well, either way, good luck,” she said. “And try to steer clear of the dragon lady.”
So Clara hadn’t even opened her booth yet but was already making friends and influencing people, I thought as I led Angus up to the merchants’ area. I had to give her credit, though. I’d have been scared for little Clover, too, if I were Clara. Had that huge bird acted like it was going to fly off its handler’s wrist, I’d have run screaming in the opposite direction myself. I knew it was wrong to judge a creature on the basis of its appearance, but that was one vicious-looking bird.
A juggler tossing bowling pins into the air passed us. I wondered briefly when bowling had been invented. Then I told myself that it didn’t matter and that maybe the guy was just practicing. Who was I to be nitpicky?
I found the merchants’ area and was surprised to see that it was practically deserted, especially given all the activity going on outside the building. Maybe most of the other merchants thought—as I had before Julie’s visit to the Stitch—that we weren’t supposed to set up our booths until the next day. A few of the booths had been decorated, but most were still bare.
I spotted the word
Scentsibilities
written incalligraphy on a huge sign in front of one of the booths. That must be Nellie’s . . . which meant mine was the one to the right of hers and Clara’s was the one to the right of mine.
I didn’t see Nellie anywhere, so I went over to check out her booth. She had candles lined up on one side of her table. In the middle were pamphlets detailing the benefits of aromatherapy. And to the other side, she had rows of essential oils in small apothecary bottles. They were charming. I wanted some. They’d be so quaint on a small tray in the bathroom, and then I could add the oils to my bathwater. . . . I wouldn’t give Nellie the satisfaction of buying from her myself, though. She might even refuse to sell to me. Maybe I could get someone else to buy them for me.
Nellie also had small round wooden tubs filled with soaps, massage oils, and incense. And a tall, narrow shelf in one corner contained herbal teas, lip balms, lotions, shower gels, and hand and foot creams. Her booth looked great. I resolved to compliment her on it when I saw her. If she didn’t want to accept the compliment, so be it. I could still be nice.
I stepped over into my booth. It was a complete blank canvas, containing only three fabric-covered dividers and a long white table. I had bought a periwinkle tablecloth that matched my Seven-Year Stitch bags. It would be perfect to drape over the table. The dividers would hold a couple small
little
? That was an understatement. “She’s beautiful, though. Again, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” The falcon’s handler blew out a breath. “I’ve been feeling defensive of her all afternoon. Many people around here—in particular, an old lady with a bunny rabbit—didn’t seem to like Herodias—and she’s a good girl.” She looked at the bird. “Aren’t you?”
Herodias’s gaze never wavered.
I felt a stab of guilt. I, too, had judged Herodias on the basis of her looks alone . . . and the fact that her namesake was wicked.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Wait. The woman with the rabbit—was her name Clara?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“I’m afraid so. If it’s any consolation, she doesn’t like Angus or me, either.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why she hates me, but she seems to think Angus will kill the bunny—even though the two of them love playing together.”
“He’s a pretty dog.” She inclined her head. “Will you be bringing him with you to the Faire?”
“I’d intended to, but now that I’m seeing everything, I’m afraid it might be too much for him to handle, especially once the food vendors get cooking.”
“That’s true. Well, either way, good luck,” she said. “And try to steer clear of the dragon lady.”
So Clara hadn’t even opened her booth yet but was already making friends and influencing people, I thought as I led Angus up to the merchants’ area. I had to give her credit, though. I’d have been scared for little Clover, too, if I were Clara. Had that huge bird acted like it was going to fly off its handler’s wrist, I’d have run screaming in the opposite direction myself. I knew it was wrong to judge a creature on the basis of its appearance, but that was one vicious-looking bird.
A juggler tossing bowling pins into the air passed us. I wondered briefly when bowling had been invented. Then I told myself that it didn’t matter and that maybe the guy was just practicing. Who was I to be nitpicky?
I found the merchants’ area and was surprised to see that it was practically deserted, especially given all the activity going on outside the building. Maybe most of the other merchants thought—as I had before Julie’s visit to the Stitch—that we weren’t supposed to set up our booths until the next day. A few of the booths had been decorated, but most were still bare.
I spotted the word
Scentsibilities
written incalligraphy on a huge sign in front of one of the booths. That must be Nellie’s . . . which meant mine was the one to the right of hers and Clara’s was the one to the right of mine.
I didn’t see Nellie anywhere, so I went over to check out her booth. She had candles lined up on one side of her table. In the middle were pamphlets detailing the benefits of aromatherapy. And to the other side, she had rows of essential oils in small apothecary bottles. They were charming. I wanted some. They’d be so quaint on a small tray in the bathroom, and then I could add the oils to my bathwater. . . . I wouldn’t give Nellie the satisfaction of buying from her myself, though. She might even refuse to sell to me. Maybe I could get someone else to buy them for me.
Nellie also had small round wooden tubs filled with soaps, massage oils, and incense. And a tall, narrow shelf in one corner contained herbal teas, lip balms, lotions, shower gels, and hand and foot creams. Her booth looked great. I resolved to compliment her on it when I saw her. If she didn’t want to accept the compliment, so be it. I could still be nice.
I stepped over into my booth. It was a complete blank canvas, containing only three fabric-covered dividers and a long white table. I had bought a periwinkle tablecloth that matched my Seven-Year Stitch bags. It would be perfect to drape over the table. The dividers would hold a couple small
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