SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17
Chapter 1
“You can still change your mind, you know.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I opened them again. I crawled out from under the rough-hewn medieval-style trestle table I’d been repairing and looked up. Alec Franzetti was staring down at me with a pleading expression on his broad, bearded face. Both of his enormous, hairy hands were clutching a clipboard that held an untidy, inch-thick sheaf of paper. He gripped it tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. He looked so stressed that the temptation to snap at him vanished. I made sure my tone was gentle. Gentle, but firm.
“No, Alec,” I said. “I’m very happy doing what I’m doing.”
His face fell, and he sighed loudly.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I stood up and gestured at the clipboard.
“Probably.” He flipped through a couple of the top papers. “Let me think.”
He glanced down at the clipboard, then wandered off, looking distracted and lost.
“Change your mind about what?” came a voice from behind me.
I jumped at the sound. Alec’s anxiety was rubbing off on me. I turned and smiled when I saw my old friend Caroline Willner.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you.” I gave her a quick welcoming hug. “And you don’t have to apologize. How long have you been in town?”
“Only just arriving,” she said. “Haven’t even been to your house yet, because your dad said you were out here at Ragnar’s farm, and could I drop by and try to rescue you? He wouldn’t say from what. So who is this Alec person, and what does he want you to change your mind about? And for that matter, what is all this?” She made a sweeping gesture.
I glanced around, trying to see our surroundings through her eyes. We were in an enormous outdoor tent, the kind you’d get to hold a small circus or a really large outdoor wedding reception. We stood in the end that had been designated as the banquet hall, featuring the enormous oak table, four matching backless benches, and half a dozen tall, branching wrought iron candelabras. In the middle of the tent, taking up more than half of the floor space, was the forge area, featuring six assorted blacksmith’s workstations, each complete with a forge, anvil, worktable, and a tall metal locker for tools, coats, and anything the director didn’t want to see on camera. Beyond that, at the far end of the tent, was the production area, in which workers were setting up the lights, video cameras, microphones, and other tech gear needed to film what went on in the other two areas.
“Alec’s an old friend,” I began.
Not entirely accurate. But what was I supposed to call him? He certainly wasn’t an old enemy. We’d never been all that close, and yet he was more than an old acquaintance. We’d known each other since our college days. He was someone I knew well enough to spend time with when we were thrown together, at craft fairs or blacksmith gatherings. Someone I rather liked when he wasn’t being a complete pain in the neck. I vividly recalled that long-ago day when I’d met Alec, although I could no longer remember if it was in my sophomore or junior year of college. I’d ridden my bike from the UVA campus to the tiny, rundown building where William Faulkner Cates, my blacksmithing teacher, had his forge. I’d dashed inside, fired up for my next lesson, only to find that Faulk was working with another pupil. A much more traditional blacksmithing pupil—Alec was tall and burly like Faulk. He had brown hair to Faulk’s blond, but apart from that they could have been brothers. I’d watched for a few minutes, unseen, as Faulk calmly guided Alec’s faltering first attempts at blacksmithing. And felt a pang of—what? Jealousy, perhaps? Not sexual jealousy—even before I figured out Faulk was gay I’d realized we were meant to be friends rather than lovers. Still, I was more than a little resentful that someone else was taking up a part of my mentor’s time and attention.
But it was more than that. Alec’s arrival seemed at first as if it might slam the door I was trying to open—the door into a profession that wasn’t exactly welcoming. Women blacksmiths were relatively rare, and the old guard treated us more as curiosities than colleagues. And apart from Dad, my own family members hadn’t exactly been supportive. Oh, they were very encouraging about my taking lessons, but they seemed to see blacksmithing as a unique and interesting hobby to occupy my free time, once I’d taken up a suitable career as a doctor, lawyer, or professor. Something white collar and professional.
Faulk’s forge was the only place where I could feel free from all those pressures—free from the disapproval of chauvinistic blacksmiths and the expectations of my family. And Faulk was, back then, the only person who really took my work seriously.
And then this intruder showed up. I was tempted to slink away, never to return. Clearly Faulk had only taken me on as a pupil because he hadn’t found any men who wanted blacksmithing lessons. Alec would take my place and—
Just then Faulk noticed me, and his face took on such a look of welcome and relief that my urge to flee vanished.
“Meg,” he said. “This is Alec Franzetti, our new pupil. Come show him how to tell when the iron’s ready to work.”
Our new pupil. My world fell back into place. There was a new pupil. But I was still the senior pupil—that post was mine to hold on to, if I could.
And I did. Alec might have looked more like most people’s idea of a blacksmith, but he wasn’t exactly Faulk’s star pupil. He was a bit of a klutz, and bad at taking directions. Especially from me, which was unfortunate, since Faulk’s original idea was to have me cement my knowledge of the blacksmithing basics by imparting them to Alec. We gave that up after a few weeks, and Faulk was more than half expecting Alec to quit his lessons entirely. But he never completely gave up, and over the years, Faulk eventually turned him into a competent blacksmith and then a bladesmith. But not a master at either.
I’d been overjoyed when Faulk and his husband, Tad, moved to Caerphilly, but relieved when Alec relocated to California. He was fond of bragging that “Cates taught me everything I know.” Faulk tended to wince at this, and at least once I’d heard him murmur, “But unfortunately, not everything I know.” Alec was much less annoying as an occasional visitor to the East Coast, and his change of career from journeyman bladesmith to TV impresario seemed like a good thing to me—as long as he stopped trying to drag me into it.
“An old friend who moved to California and has gotten involved in television,” I went on. “They’re making a TV series,” I said. “Blades of Glory.”
“Ooh,” she said. “So Michael’s acting again? Some kind of swashbuckling heroic fantasy, I assume.”
I could have pointed out that my husband had never exactly given up acting—although these days, as a tenured faculty member of Caerphilly College’s Drama Department, he spent more time teaching and directing. I could have added that, since in his salad days he’d played a sinister though sexy wizard on a low-budget cult-hit TV show, appearing in yet another swashbuckling heroic fantasy was not a career move that would interest him. But I stifled the urge.
“Not that kind of TV series,” I said. “This is one of those reality-TV competition shows. They start out with six blacksmiths—correction, bladesmiths; it’s all about weapon making. Each episode, the judges will assign them a different weapon—a two-handed sword, or a Viking battle-ax, or whatever. And all the competitors have to go and make one. Then the judges test it for strength and sharpness and assess how aesthetically pleasing and historically accurate it is, and whoever does the worst gets kicked out of the competition. So by the last episode, they’re down from six competitors to two and both the winner and the runner-up get nice cash prizes.”
“Sounds interesting,” Caroline said. “And you’re going to compete?”
“No,” I said. “Not really my thing.”
“You’re a blacksmith,” she said.
“But not primarily a bladesmith,” I pointed out.
“You’ve made plenty of weapons.”
“Not compared to these guys.” I waved at the forge area, although at the moment none of the competitors were there. “They’re all specialists. Most of them members of the American Bladesmith Society. And Faulk is competing.”
“And you don’t want to show up your mentor.” She nodded as if that explained everything.
“Since everything I know about making weapons I learned from Faulk, I’m smart enough to know better than to try to compete with a master bladesmith,” I said. “And besides, although reality-TV competition shows aren’t exactly my cup of tea, I’ve seen enough of them to know I don’t want to be on one. I’m just helping out with some of the backstage stuff.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” she said. “Is there a reason they’re planning to film here in a tent in Ragnar’s goat pasture?”
“Ragnar invited them to film here,” I said. “And offered to put up all the cast and crew during filming.”
“Very generous,” she said. “And just what you’d expect from him.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure if Ragnar was being generous or whether he thought the filming would be a lot of fun and wanted a ringside seat. Ragnar had retired from a lucrative career as the drummer for several heavy-metal bands that had evidently been wildly successful—although I’d never heard of any of them. He’d bought a large estate in the Caerphilly County countryside and was busy turning what had started out as a sprawling mansion into a veritable castle, complete with stone walls, towers, a moat, and enough wrought iron to keep both Faulk and me busy for the rest of our careers.
“But for some reason, none of the hundred or so rooms in the castle quite works for filming the main blacksmithing scenes,” I went on. “So here we are.”
“Hope they get some space heaters for this tent,” she said. “It’s a bit chilly now, and the temperature’s going to get colder, not warmer, over the next few days.”
“I’ve suggested that,” I said. “And the forges will help warm things. Here’s hoping the snow holds off.”
“And the arctic polar vortex. And— Wait. No. That would doom us all to not having a white Christmas. I take it back. Let it snow! They can just cope with it.”
“If you have any influence with the snow, please tell it to hold off until Friday afternoon,” I said. “They’re going to film the first episode this week, then take next week off.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “Everyone can celebrate the holiday and then pick up again in the new year.”
I nodded. Actually, I doubted if the production team would have time for much celebrating. I’d overheard enough to know that they’d spend the holiday creating a rough cut of the first episode and showing it to some of the higher-ups in their company—higher-ups who, if not sufficiently impressed, might pull the plug on the whole project. Which meant Alec wouldn’t be doing much celebrating, either, since he’d invested more money in this crazy project than he could afford to lose. He’d spend the whole Christmas break worrying, and I was afraid he’d go bonkers if the show didn’t get green-lighted. Bonkers, and maybe even bankrupt. But I kept this to myself, since I only knew any of it from the eavesdropping I’d done while helping to set up the six blacksmithing stations. So far all of the production people tended to overlook my presence, as if I were merely a non-stationary part of the set. I wanted to keep it that way.
“Will you be here much longer?” Caroline began to sit down on one of the benches, but I grabbed her arm just in time to stop her.
“Don’t sit on that just yet,” I said. “The idiots who assembled the furniture didn’t bother to tighten any of the bolts. That one’s safe.”
I steered her to the one bench I knew could hold the weight of even a small, roundish person. It had collapsed about an hour ago, spilling the assistant director onto the straw-covered floor of the banquet area. I’d reassembled it, making sure the hidden bolts were good and tight, and was now working on ensuring that the table and the rest of the benches were structurally sound.
“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “And if there’s something you need to be doing, don’t let me interrupt you.”
“You can amuse me while I work,” I said.
So while I made sure the other three benches and the table were safe to use, she chatted away, relating some of the recent happenings at the wild animal refuge she ran. She was in the middle of telling me about the success she was having raising several orphaned Virginia big-eared bat pups when an officious young woman in a mustard-colored mini-skirted suit and stiletto heels strode over. Her clipboard was much tidier than Alec’s. Jasmyn, the production assistant, was organized—I liked that in a person—but she never brought good news.
“Those simply won’t do.” She pointed toward the two folding tables we’d set up for the judges. “They’re not in period.”
“They’re not finished yet,” I said.
“But they need to be finished today!” Jasmyn sounded stressed. “We start filming tomorrow at eight!” She proceeded to rant and rave on the subject, and I’d have cut her short except that I spotted something happening behind her back. Ragnar had appeared, carrying what looked like an armload of star-spangled darkness. Unfolded, the darkness was revealed as two large expanses of black velvet, embroidered in silver. While Jasmyn continued to revile me, he spread the velvet over the tables, and then stood back to admire the result.
“You’re right,” I said, finally interrupting my tormentor. “They need to be covered with something, so they look in period. I’ll take care of that immediately.” I snapped my fingers, then pointed to the tables. “How’s that?”
She turned to look. I saw her nod slightly. Then, clearly in the mood to continue venting at someone, she turned back to me, frowning.
“Well, why wasn’t it done already?” she asked. “What are we paying you for?”
“You’re not,” I said. “I’m one of Alec’s people. The guys you’re paying went on break an hour and a half ago, and I have no idea where they are.”
She pursed her lips, and I suspected she was trying to think up a sufficiently snide reply. But just then a large splotch of gooey white liquid landed on top of her sleek auburn pageboy. I looked up to see a crow sitting on one of the guy wires near the ceiling of the tent. He cawed raucously.
It took Jasmyn a second or two to realize what had happened. Then her face crumpled.
“Oh, gross!” she screamed. And then she ran out of the tent, shrieking. The other workers in the production end barely looked up in spite of her noisy exit.
“He must like you.” Caroline was staring up at the crow with an expression of approval. “Have you been feeding him?”
“Only helping Ragnar,” I said. “He feeds them all the time.”
“Crows notice,” she said. “They’re very intelligent.”
“Yes, I know,” I said quickly. Caroline, like my grandfather, was fond of sharing little tidbits of information about her favorite creatures. Little tidbits or great long lectures. And they were both particularly fond of corvids—crows, ravens, and even jays. Caroline had been a nurse before retiring to found her wild animal sanctuary and often put her medical knowledge to good use rehabilitating injured creatures—including corvids.
“I’m worried about this one, though,” she said. “It’s starting to get dark outside. He should be out finding a good place to roost for the night. Getting his rest. Not in here where some idiot who doesn’t like corvids might try to chase him.”
As if he’d heard us, the crow cawed twice, then took off and flew out through one of the tent openings. Caroline nodded in satisfaction.
“Caroline! Have you come to watch the filming?” Ragnar loomed over us, six and a half feet tall and looking almost as wide in a bulky down coat. He hugged Caroline. Given the foot-and-a-half difference in their heights, he had to bend over almost double to do so.
“I’ve come to spend Christmas with Meg and her family,” she said. “But I’d love to eavesdrop on the filming if it’s allowed.”
Copyright © 2023 by Donna Andrews
