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day. I actually stopped feeling self-conscious about saying "Good morrow, mistress." I no longer gaped when I saw whole families in period costume, down to the toddlers and infants. I rejoiced when someone pulled out a book, pointed to some bit of antique hardware, and asked, eagerly, if I could possibly make something like it.
    I was writing up the details of one such commission when I felt someone hovering at my elbow.
    "I'll be with you in a moment, sir," I said over my shoulder.
    "Promises, promises," came Michael's voice. "I was looking for Rob, actually."
    "Rob?" I said, turning around. "I caught him trying to do a puppet show with a couple of my flamingos and chased him out to run errands."
    "Flamingos?" Michael said, and his puzzled look reminded me that I'd so far avoided telling him about the ghastly birds. "What flamingos?"
    "I'll fill you in later," I said, wincing. "What did you need Rob for, anyway?"
    "This is Roger Benson," Michael said, introducing a middle-aged man, about my height, wearing modern clothes and a bemused look. "The softwarecompany guy. He's been wandering around seeing the sights. I ran into him over in the encampment, asking directions to your booth."
    "Quite a shindig you have here," Benson said, glancing around. "Very profitable, I suppose."
    "Well, I hope the crafters are going to do well," I said. "I don't think the organizing committee is looking for a profit – they're not charging admission, of course, and any proceeds from the concessions are going to the local historical society."
    "Still, it promotes tourism, doesn't it," he said. "Big industry around here."
    Yes, it was, but he'd struck a sour note somehow. Of course I was hoping to make a tidy profit for the weekend. But still, how could someone walk from an encampment straight out of a history book, and through the picturesque streets of the craft fair, passing so many incredibly believable costumed reenactors, and only think about how profitable it must be?
    Cool it, I told myself, forcing a smile. You don't have to like him. If he buys Rob's game and makes it a hit, who cares how mercenary he is? In fact, maybe mercenary is a good thing under the circumstances.
    Still, as I introduced him to Rob, who was just returning with two authentic pewter mugs – discreetly filled, thank goodness, with the dual anachronisms of ice and Diet Coke – I cast a glance over at Michael. A British grenadier and a buckskin-clad frontiersman were in the lane just outside, giving an impromptu lesson on the differences between a musket and a rifle to half a dozen boys. Michael was watching, too. Then he noticed a freckled little girl clinging to her mother's hand, but trailing behind, taking in the sights with wide eyes. He bowed deeply to her, the white ribbon cockade on his hat nearly touching the ground, and she broke into a wide smile. Then she and her mother disappeared into the crowd and Michael returned to watching the gunnery demonstration.
    Okay, I thought, as I turned back to Rob and Roger Benson. If he likes all this, we'll go to more reenactments. It's not that bad.
    "Quite an outfit," Benson was saying, looking at Rob's costume.
    "Well, I wanted to fit in," Rob said, looking sheepish.
    "Oh, I understand," Benson said. "When in Rome. Wish you'd warned me it was going to be like this; I could have gotten a costume myself."
    "Oh, you can rent one, very inexpensively," Eileen put in. "Mrs. Waterston, the festival organizer, had her dress shop run up dozens, so people who get here and want to join in the fun can do just that."
    "Really," Benson said. Why did I suspect he wasn't all that thrilled at the idea of renting a costume?
    "Yes, what a good idea," I said. "Rob, why don't you take him along to the costume rental shop?"
    "Uh… yes, thanks," Benson said, looking resigned. "I'll do that. Before we do, Rob, I just wanted to ask – "
    "How is it going, anyway?" Michael said, drawing me aside.
    "Not bad," I said. "Getting a lot of