Daring In a Blue Dress by Katie MacAlister Page B

Fenice waved it away, and the three of us moved over to the far side of the garden where a couple of archery butts had been placed. There were also three large plastic bins containing what I imagined were the bows and arrows intended for instructional use. Fenice reached behind the pyramid of bins and pulled out a beautifully embossed leather quiver and a canvas case that obviously held a bow.
    â€œI won’t let you use Eloise—she’s my competition bow, and was custom-made for me by one of the best bow makers in Europe—but you can use Tarantella.” Fenice pulled out a lovely hickory bow about six feet long, and handed it to me.
    I balanced it on my palm for a second, then firmly grasped the jute cording that had been wrapped around the center of the bow as a grip, and extended my arm. With my right hand, I used my middle three fingers, and pulled the string back to my cheek, holding it for a few seconds before letting my fingers relax. The string slipped past them, twanging a sharp, high note.
    â€œNice bow,” I told Fenice, accepting the quiver she held out to me. I slipped one of the arrows out, and locked it on the bow, feeling more than a little cocky. I silently recited my shooting mantra (
Turn arm down; turn palm up
), grasped the string, and, with the traditional swooping move upward, brought the string back to the far corner of my mouth while slowly lowering the bow until I had the target in sight. “Now let’s see if I can hit a bull’s-eye right off the . . . ow!”
    I had let my fingers relax before I finished my sentence, causing the arrow to sail off, and unfortunately getting a nasty case of string slap on the arm holding the bow.
    The arrow landed a good six feet away from the butt.
    Fenice pursed her lips while I rubbed the stinging spot on my forearm.
    â€œHurt yourself?” Vandal asked, displaying what I felt was obnoxiously faux innocence.
    â€œJust a little string slap,” I growled, locking another arrow onto the bow.
    â€œComes from hyperextending your arm, doesn’t it? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Fenice do that.”
    â€œOh, shut it,” I snapped, then realized I was being rude to my boss. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Yes, it was an amateur move, and yes, I know better than to swing my arm around so that the string smacks it. I was just being a smarty-pants, but I’ve learned my lesson.”
    Vandal grinned at me. “And I apologize as well. I shouldn’t rag you the way I do Fen.”
    I took a deep breath, pulled the string back to my cheek, sighted the target, then held my breath for the count of three before releasing the arrow.
    â€œNow, that’s what I’m talking about,” I said, doing a little fist pump when the arrow (just barely) hit the bull’s-eye.
    â€œThat’s not dead center,” Fenice said critically.
    â€œNo, but surely it’s good enough to teach tourists how to shoot,” I argued.
    â€œIt is, but there’s a little matter of Fight Knight at the end of our three weeks,” Vandal said.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    Fenice turned to him, her eyes wide. “You didn’t!”
    He nodded, smiling. “I did.”
    â€œYou got approval to hold it? It’s sanctioned and everything?”
    â€œI did, and it is. That’s why I was late coming back today—I met with the council and got their approval.”
    Fenice whooped and flung her good arm around her brother, giving him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I forgive you everything but that time when I was five and you locked me in a cupboard and wouldn’t let me out until I ate the horse’s mash.”
    â€œTo answer your question, dear lady,” Vandal said when Fenice released him, “Fight Knight is a competition held every year. Medieval combat troupes take turns hosting it, and this year, the club who was supposed to be doing so had to