“It’ssss defective; I cannot get it to sssspeak,” the woman replied, flashing her torchlight eyes at Marianne.
“Well, I’d like to buy it, then,” said Marianne, taking out her money. “I rather like books that don’t talk back.”
Marianne soon realized that her new acquisition was a hazard in a different way. Trying to navigate around the carnival while reading proved nearly impossible if she didn’t want to bump into people carrying mounds of gimcracks they’d won for throwing lopsided balls into skewed hoops. Settling herself down in front of the acrobats’ tent, Marianne opened her book. She had delighted in hearing the spine crack when a charming melody originating from the scarlet tent across from her permeated the air. At first Marianne tried to ignore it, but the enticing notes began to nuzzle at her ears, begging to be let in. She was overpowered by the persuasive tune. The words of her tome seemed to float off the page and follow the entrancing rhythm from the pergola beyond. Rising, Marianne looked around to see who else had fallen under the spell of this sweet siren song. The people around her hurried by, oblivious to her rapture. Proceeding with eyes half-closed, Marianne read the billboard now rising above her, proclaiming in tawdry letters, which burned brilliantly to Marianne’s eyes:
Scare Yourself Silly in the Tunnel of Terror!
Be Rorried by Werewolves! Horrified by Hobgoblins!
Suffer Malice from Monsters!
Each statement was enticingly illustrated with a picture of a terrified patron who had got his money’s worth of thrills. Mindlessly, Marianne paid her admission to the shady man at the door, who tipped his hat as he pulled a lever, opening the painted stone portico at the entrance. But I don’t like to be scared. The music in her ears swelled to a crescendo, and Marianne entered.
The first room contained a hall of mirrors, each distorting Marianne’s figure as she walked purposefully through. Where is the music leading me? Marianne clutched her book more tightly as she stepped into the next room where a paper cutout of a werewolf fell off its stand as Marianne walked by. The next room’s contents were no better: A hobgoblin puppet dangled limply from the ceiling, his lolling tongue tied into a knot by a disgruntled customer. Marianne was considering undoing the mischief when she heard a sound farther down the hall. Must be my monster.
Striding down the corridor, she heard the music reach greater heights. A peculiar scratching noise was emanating from a tear in the black fabric draped about the walls. Marianne approached it, biting her lip. Suddenly, a freakish head sprouting horns popped out of the hole. The music stopped abruptly. Marianne screamed, losing her book in her haste to find the exit. Finding none, Marianne tore through the thin fabric covering the makeshift walls and fumbled her way to daylight. Once outside, she gratefully sucked in the morning air before sitting down on a bench, her head in her hands as she tried to quiet her frazzled nerves.
Marianne’s downcast eyes saw a pair of scruffy leather boots make their way over to her, followed by a stream of sincere apologies. “I am so sorry about that. I really, really don’t like scaring anyone. This isn’t even my regular job! William got sick, and they told me I had to fill in. Please forgive me. Here, you dropped this.” A gentle hand held out Marianne’s book, but Marianne kept her head down. “I see you’re reading Royal Mabel,” the voice stammered. “She’s a great author. When I met her, she was really quite pleasant. Please don’t be mad at me,” the voice finished.
Marianne raised her eyebrows disbelievingly, but kept her head down. “You’ve met Royal Mabel?” she asked in amazement.
“Certainly,” said the voice that belonged to the boots, “Why, I know her so well, she lets me call her Queen Mab.” At this Marianne gave a laugh and looked upwards at the handsomest boy she had ever seen.
Chapter the Sixteenth
Marianne felt a blush rise to her cheeks as her warm eyes met his shy brown ones. Don’t say anything dumb! Try not to embarrass yourself! Marianne thought. The boy, who looked about a year older than she, sat down beside her and handed her the book. Marianne accepted it, trying to keep him from noticing how her eyes kept glancing at his curly dark hair. “I’m Marianne,” she blurted out before giving a blithe laugh and pulling her hair over her ear. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of being frightened out of my wits?” she continued, deciding that she’d already blown her chance for a clever introduction.
The boy leaned his head to one side before comprehending the question. “O-Oh! Well, my real name is rather lame,” he rhymed, exchanging another tense laugh with Marianne. “So it’s my stage name that will earn me fame.” Marianne giggled. Heartened by this, the boy continued, “But my stage name’s just the same—lame, so I’ll never achieve fame—”
“Is that your aim?” interrupted Marianne with a sly smile.
“That was my aim, until you came,” said the boy, before swallowing and looking away. “You may call me Art,” he said, turning back to Marianne.
“Art,” said Marianne, to no one in particular.
“It’s an abbreviation of my stage name,” he explained.
“It’s nice to know you don’t always speak in couplets,” replied Marianne.
“Actually, that’s my job. I do readings of poetry in that tent over there.” He waved toward a lime green tent next to a sign of a smiling peasant giving his thumbs-up approval. “Why don’t you come to see me? The show starts at noon,” he said hopefully.
“People actually pay to hear you read?” said Marianne, in disbelief.
“I take offense at that. I don’t just read—I perform,” he exclaimed, jumping up and striking a dramatic pose. “I bring the world of literature alive to anybody—for a nominal fee, of course, that being the very low price of one shilling. For this pittance, I will recite your very own quotation from Edwin Spancer’s epic masterpiece The Queen of the Faeries.”
“And what would you say to me?” asked Marianne, rising from her seat.
“Have you got a shilling?” he quipped, trying to control his smile, the end result being that he looked as though he were chewing some exceptionally hard toffee. Marianne found this endearing.
“That’s not a very good quotation,” she replied.
“Then how about this one: ‘Heaven and Earth did must collide, for an angel is standing before my eyes.’”
“That would be worth a shilling,” said Marianne, almost showing that she was impressed. Catching herself, she quickly replied, “But I don’t have a shilling.”
“I heard your sack jingle when you got up,” he teased.
“Well, I don’t have a shilling for you,” Marianne retorted. “Look in here and see. There is not one shilling marked ‘For Art,’” she said, thrusting her sack toward him. Art laughed as he reached forward in pretended seriousness.
“Stay where you are, you villain!” came Robin’s piercing voice as he burst onto the scene and charged at Art. “Are you okay, Marianne?” asked Robin, advancing on a very confused Art, who was warily watching Robin’s sword. “I know how to deal with the likes of you who would steal from a defenseless girl!” Robin continued, his sword now at Art’s neck.
“Robin, you’re wrong! He wasn’t trying to steal from me! We were just talking!” exclaimed Marianne.
“What kind of conversation ends with you handing over your money?” asked Robin, still keeping one eye on Art.
“I