A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (24 page)

Gerard blushes but stands his ground.
Strong man. These chicks may be silly and giggly, but they're all stunning. Each would be a knight in shining armor's dream.

"I'd like to introduce you to Princess Christine," he says, gesturing to me. "She will be joining you for a time."

The women glance at me, then giggle some more. They seem friendly. Phew. At least they're not going to act like snobby bitches.

"Thank you, Sir Gerard," they say in unison. "Now, won't you come in?"

"Sorry, ladies, I cannot," the guard says. "I must return to my post. Some other time, for certain."

They let out cries of disappointment, but the guard waves them off and says his good-byes, retreating down the hallway like one of Odysseus's crew who has just been saved from the sirens.

But I'm stuck with them.

Worse, the second the guard leaves, the women's attitudes change. They look me up and
down, disdainful expressions clear on each face. Oh great. It's a medieval sorority, and they're ready to haze me.

"God's teeth! What in the devil's name is she wearing?" one of them asks, picking at the sleeve of my dress. "This style has not been in fashion for near five summers."

"And her hair! Does she not know how to run a comb through it, mayhap?"

"Not to mention her smell," adds the third, pinching her nose with delicate white fingers. "Surely she has not had a bath in several moons."

Oh great. Just my freaking luck. It's the medieval version of the staff at
La Style
magazine.

"Yes, yes, I'm not a
fashionista. I get it. Never claimed to be," I interrupt. "But I'm here and you're stuck with me, so why don't you just show me to my room?"

All three women stare at me.

"You dare order us about?" asks the blonde.

I square my shoulders. I've been intimidated by tall, anorexic blondes my entire life. I'm done with that now. "I just did, didn't I?"

"And what, pray tell, makes you believe we should oblige you or your orders?" asks the brunette.

Ugh. This is not going well. I attempt to lower my hackles. After all, I need to make friends with these women. As obnoxious as they are, they're going to be my roommates until King Richard returns, and the last thing I need is to have Real World—style drama in my living quarters right now. I've got enough to deal with.

I think fast. How can I impress these women? What's the one thing at
La Style
that the shallow, bitchy editors respected me for?

Suddenly, inspiration hits and I throw the girls a dazzling smile. This had better work. I know I'm impressed by how far photography has come, and I'm guessing these girls are pretty vain.

"Because I can show you magic beyond your wildest dreams.”

Hm. I'm getting skeptical looks from the peanut gallery here. What, they don't believe in magic? Or, um, more worrisome, what if they do believe, and believe only witches can practice it? The last thing I need today is to be burned at the stake. Maybe I should have thought of that before I opened my big mouth.

"Magic? What magic?" queries the blonde, thankfully sounding more intrigued than outraged.

"Show us," commands the brunette,

I roll my eyes. "Uh, hello? You think I'm going to go perform magic right out here in the hallway where anyone can see? Puh-leeze. Show me to my room, and once I'm all washed up and good and ready, I'll put on a little show."

The three women turn to one another to confer over my proposition.

"She could be lying," says the blonde.

"Yes, how can we trust her?" says the brunette, looking at me indignantly. "Look at what she considers acceptable dress!"

God, these women are even more vapid than my
La Style
coworkers. And that's saying something.

"Look, my fashion sense has nothing to do with my magical prowess," I interrupt. "You'll just have to trust me on that."

They whisper to one another and then all three turn to me.

"Very well," the blonde says. "We will allow you entrance. However, if you do not prove your magic you will be cast out on your
arse."

"Deal." I put out my hand to shake on it,
then wonder if that's a gesture yet to be invented. I drop my arm. "So, uh, lead the way."

I follow them over the threshold and into a large suite of rooms. The middle chamber is sort of a sitting room, with a large fireplace and several stools.
Delicate, colorful embroidery in varying stages of production lies everywhere. Guess that's what they do for fun around here. Ugh. I hope they don't expect me to join in. I never was one of those crafty girls.

Off the main room there are several bedrooms, the largest featuring a canopy bed enclosed in heavy drapes.

"Who sleeps there?" I ask, peering inside.

"Lady Marion."

"Oh." I frown. Ugh. I've got to share the suite with her? That's going to be a bit awkward. Then again, maybe she won't be back, now that she's probably all shacking up with my boyfriend.

The thought sobers me and I sink onto one of the stools, suddenly filled with melancholy. I've now gone from having the time of my life as an outlaw, doing good deeds and falling in love with a man I considered my possible soul mate, to cohabitating with a bunch of superficial bitches who only care about themselves and the latest cut in gowns. Sure, it'll be nice to have a bath, but I already miss Sherwood Forest.

Funny thing is, if I'm being completely honest, I miss life with Robin even more than I miss life back in the 21st century. Weird, huh? I mean, who would think I'd prefer sleeping on the ground and peeing in the woods to a Starbucks on every corner and taxis at my disposal? (Well, sort of at my disposal, depending on what time I really need them and what corner I find myself on.)

If things had worked out with Robin, what would I have done when King Richard returned? Would I have said good-bye and good luck and went on my merry way? Or would I have stayed? Could I have stayed, I wonder? Would
Nimue allow it? Is it possible? I guess I could have always brought Robin back to the 21st century like Kat was trying to do with Lancelot, but would I even want to? I like it here. The fresh scent of pine in the forest, the cheery chirps of sweet songbirds waking me each morning, the good, hard-working, honest people that live here—I'd miss all of that.

According to the legends, once King Richard returns, Robin gets back his lands. He and I could get married and live as the Lord and Lady of Locksley. Our children could play at our feet, just as Robin told me he'd done as a child. We could be loyal, kind rulers, and our people would love us. We could grow old together, be best friends and true loves.

I shake my head to get rid of the ridiculous fantasy. Even if I could stay in the past, it no longer mattered. History had played out the way it was supposed to, Robin hooked up with Marion. She is his true love, the one destined to be Lady Locksley, not me. She is the one who gets the happy ending.

And me, I'll just go back to NYC and live out the rest of my days in an empty existence. I don't even want to meet another guy. Who's going to be better than the
one I had? The legendary outlaw with the wicked smile and heart of gold. There's no one in the 21st century that could be as worthy. As strong. As confident. As hot and sexy.

One of the ladies in waiting rings a bell, and a few moments later a scrawny,
red-headed servant boy appears in the doorway.

"Fetch the bath," the woman instructs him. "This girl stinks like a pig who has spent its day rolling in mud."

"Actually I heard pigs are pretty clean—just FYI," I tell her, unable to resist.

She shoots me a scornful look. Hm. I'm not doing so well on the winning-friends-and-influencing people thing. I wish Kat would call. She'd totally know how to handle these wenches. After all, these fashion-obsessed types are totally her peeps.

A few moments later two other servants appear, between them carrying a large wooden tub. They set it down in the center of the room. Other servants follow, each with a bucket of steaming hot water, which they pour into the tub. I watch, actually kind of psyched. After all, I haven't had a bath the entire time I've been here. Sure, I've dunked in the lake, but there wasn't any soap and the freezing cold water forced me to limit my soak time.

The brunette hands me a bar of sweet-smelling soap. Another adds a pinch of crushed flower dust to the water and soon the sweet scent of roses rises with the steam. How lovely.

The servants bow and exit the room. I look at the tub, then back at the girls. They stand, waiting, expectant. Um...

"Can I have some privacy?" I ask, trying not to sound as impatient and annoyed as I feel
But, come on! I'm so not stripping in front of these girls. You know the first thing they're going to do is start making evil comments about my small chest. Or my not exactly "abs of steel" stomach. And trust me, I'm not ready to relive the locker room days of high school, thank you very much.

They grumble a bit, but they do retreat to various rooms in the suite. Alone, I strip off my dress and dip a foot into the steaming bath. It's a tad too hot, but at the same time it feels awesome against my skin. I force
myself to endure the heat and sink into the water, my insides warming and a sense of contentment washing over me.

This is more like it! I may miss forest life, but I've also missed a nice hot bath like this.
Especially since there's only a shower stall in my tiny apartment back home. I can't even remember the last time I soaked in a real tub. I almost forgot how wonderful it feels.

I wash all my parts and then just sit for a while, until the water starts cooling and my fingertips get all
pruney. Then I rise and gingerly step out of the tub, my head a bit foggy from the heat. As if on cue, a servant steps out from one of the rooms— was she watching the whole time?—and wraps a towel around me. Another appears with a new dress, a bright green gown with embroidered bell sleeves. Very nice. And here I thought I'd have to get back in my filthy one.

Once I've dressed, the three ladies spill out from their various rooms and gather around me with eager expressions.

"You have had your bath," the blonde says. "And something suitable to wear. Now deliver us the magic you promised."

I swallow hard. Showtime. I hope this works.

I walk over to my bag and pull out my camera. I flip the on switch, and to my relief the device comes to life. I wasn't sure how much battery power I had left.

"Behold, the magic mirror!" I say, waving it around with as much showmanship as possible. The three women stare at the device, evidently not sure what to make of it. I chuckle. Wait 'til these vain vamps see what it does.

"Magic mirror?" asks the brunette, cocking her head.

"Ask no questions now. I will demonstrate its power," I say grandly, channeling David Copperfield. "Who would like to go first?"

The three girls look at one another with uneasy expressions. Ha! They're scared. My act is working. Finally the redhead timidly steps up.

"I will," she says, her voice a bit
quavery.

"Very well," I say, giving her
a once-over. She's actually very pretty, though a bit pale. I wish I had the
La Style
makeup artist on call. Or some lights for that matter. But hey, I remind myself, these girls have never seen a digital camera before. I don't need to deliver magazine-quality shots. Still, I do have some professional pride.

"Now," I instruct, getting into
photog mode. "Look at me. Yes, right. Now turn your left hip outward. Good. Hands on your hips. Dip your head a little lower. That's right."

My subject frowns and glances over at her friends. I realize they're giggling at her expense. She turns back to me, glaring. "What does all of this have to do with a magic mirror?" she demands. "God save you if this is some kind of trick."

I shake my head. "No, no—no trick. I just want you to look your best. Just stay with me here. Back in position." I adjust a few settings on the camera and hold it up to my eye.

Click!

The shutter noise and the bright flash causes the three girls to jump back in shock.

"What was that light?"

"Did it come from the mirror?"

"I think I may be blind!"

I smile. Wait 'til they see what I've done.

"Okay, the magic mirror has captured your image in its aura. Now you shall see yourself, caught in its mystical eye." I motion for my model to come over to me. She hesitantly steps forward, her eyes wide and looking more than a bit scared.

"I see green spots," she says, "dancing in front of my eyes. Did you blind me, witch?"

"Nah, that goes away in a minute. Don't worry," I assure her. "Do you want to see your picture—
er, reflection—or not?"

I hold out the digital camera, turning it so she can see the LCD screen on the back. She takes it in her hands and stares down at her image. Her eyes widen and suddenly she's squealing in a mix of delight and horror. She throws the camera back at me, as if it were a hot potato, and runs to the other side of the room.