SIR MORIEN STRODE INTO THE tavern. He wore full armor, of course, even though this was an informal day of rehearsals and repairs. All eyes turned to him, just like they always did. He prepared to spin gold from their attention.
Jasper winced, hunched his shoulders, and wished he could crawl under the table without anyone noticing.
“What’s going on?” Rosa asked around a mouthful of tasteless turkey.
“A morale-boosting speech,” he told her.
“But it probably won’t boost your morale,” she said.
“Probably not.”
Sir Dad climbed onto the bar, cleared his throat, and stomped one foot.
Uncle Fox stopped playing his tune. Nearby power tools all hushed.
“Our revels have not ended!” Sir Dad roared. “The spirits that disturbed this festive ground have burned away and melted into air. Such denizens may still return, and yet upstage this humble festival—”
Jasper snorted. He couldn’t take this speechifying seriously. None of Dad’s endeavors were ever humble. But no one else took it seriously, either—and neither did Dad. He pushed his goofball approximation of old chivalry right through silliness and out the other side, to a place that wasn’t serious but carried the same weight.
“We will not lock our gates, or flee the field like horses driven wild. Sing while you toil. Strike up a tune. Strike nails with hammers to keep proper time. Today we must restore our pageantry!”
The crowd cheered, and started singing. Of course they did.
Sir Dad climbed down from the bar and set out to boost morale elsewhere.
Jasper sat up a little straighter.
“That was fun,” Rosa said.
“Yeah,” said Jasper. “Fun.”
“He was the one in the spotlight,” Rosa pointed out. “Not you.”
“Always feels like it’s me.” He tossed his turkey bone into a barrel. “Come on. We should hurry before someone tries to put us to work.”
Rosa took one last bite and ditched the rest. “Mom, are you comfortable enough right here? We’ll be back soon. Hopefully.”
Mom did not answer, unless putting her feet up on the neighboring bench was a kind of answer.
Rosa and Jasper left the tavern.
“We should find more copper,” she said. “If there is any of the stuff left.”
“Try Nell’s smithy,” he said, pointing. “Tell her I sent you. I’ll go talk to Duncan at the Waxworks. He can be a little persnickety.”
The two split up on their separate errands.
Duncan Barnstaple, master candlemaker, labored in a haze of wood smoke and beeswax. He seemed to be melting down broken candles and returning them to the bubbling, primordial ooze from whence they came.
He did not wear contemporary clothing, even on an informal day of repairs and rehearsals. He wore period clothes beneath a leather apron, and braided his long, blond beard to keep strands from dropping into the wax. Duncan the candlemaker believed in authenticity. He refused to see or acknowledge anachronisms, and would ignore anything spoken out of character.
Jasper took a moment to find his accent. “Good morrow to you, master craftsman.”
The candlemaker looked up from his cauldron. “And to you, noble squire. What business brings you here with such clear urgency?”
“A knightly business,” Jasper said. “To defend the good people of Ingot from harm.”
Duncan nodded, approving. “Such is your profession.”
“And to accomplish this, we find ourselves in dire need of your profession.”
“Strange.” The candlemaker stirred his molten wax. “How may I serve this knightly business?”
“We require candles. Two of them, and both of a prodigious size. At least an ell in height.”
Duncan pulled at his braided beard. “I have such candles here. They once burned within the sanctuary of libraries, to assist the twilit studies of the patrons there. They are impressive. And most expensive. Note that I have carved the hours, and verses of old poems, into the sides of each.”
“This is fine work,” Jasper agreed. “But do you have plain, unfinished candles that you might willingly part with? Misshapen, even?”
Duncan made a face as though Jasper had sneezed on his dinner and refused to apologize. “Misshapen? I would be loath to allow apprentice-level work to leave my shop.”
Jasper tried not to let his impatience come blazing out of his face. I wish the Fantastical Candle stall was still here, he thought. I could have just said, “Hey, do you have anything really, really tall? It doesn’t need to look fancy.” He swallowed bile and tried to be convincing.
“I swear by your beard, master of the waxworks, that this is urgent and no slight to your craft.”
Duncan considered his beard a very potent thing to swear by. “I had intended to melt down a pair of cracked sanctuary candles,” he said. “I may be willing to give them to you instead. But first explain your urgency.”
Jasper hesitated, and then dove right in. “My friend and I intend to breach a misguided and unnatural barrier that stands between the living and the dead.”
“Ah.” Duncan considered this. He decided that he would rather not know any more about it. “Very well.”