Between Margins and Magic

Excerpt from The Realm of Two Moons series by Brooklyn D. White, Book II, Chapter 58
Voss stands before the man who just killed our king. Voss holds my heart, but he also holds the responsibility of Commander—and he failed. 
 

The throne room’s chaos has died down since Voss and his best warriors slew all the enemy soldiers bar the one who just slaughtered the king. Blood pools at our feet, yet Voss’ expression is blank.
 

The enemy soldier laughs, the sound disturbingly morphing into the Desveron battle cry. When the soldier looks to us there’s finally a twitch in Voss’ expression; the quirk of a smile, like he’s about to take his time dispatching the king-killer. But the soldier swings his full attention to me—the seemingly defenseless woman in the corner.

Only, without my dragon, I am defenseless here.
 

In half a breath, the enemy raises his sword and lunges toward me. I don’t even have time to bring my whistle to my lips, but when I look to where the delicate wooden piece hangs around my neck, there’s a spot of blood on it. A few more bright red dots scatter across my pale blue gown.
 

The enemy soldier slumps to the ground with Voss’ sword protruding from his chest. Voss stands behind him, stone-faced again, looking like a different man than the light-hearted charmer I’ve grown to love.
 

Voss places his hand on his opposite shoulder, dips his chin, and says to me, “Of life and magic.”
 

I return the gesture. “Of life and magic.” I search his face for something, take a step to close the distance between us. “Voss, are you—”
 

He kisses me. The mechanics are familiar, but it’s not the same. It’s like the light is gone. He’s not rough, nor is he gentle. If this is how he needs comfort, I’ll let him. He pulls away and puts his hands on either side of my face.

This, at least, feels intimate.
 

Voss’ voice comes out raw: “We’re going to need you to train more dragons.”

Chapter 1

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“Is there no one capable of handling a sack anymore?” 
 

I snort. “She said sack,” my friend Rebecca murmurs.
 

The line wench at the renaissance faire Soak a Bloke game continues her teasing, at an impressive volume that the whole crowd can hear: “Lads? A sack? Is it so foreign?” 
 

The onlookers hoot and cheer in response. Line Wench hands the man in a Guinness t-shirt and plastic Viking helmet his third leather ball—excuse me, sack—but his third attempt to hit the dunk tank mechanism with said sack is off by more than a foot. The crowd groans. So do I. 
 

“This is painful,” I mumble.
 

“Then show them!” my friends Rebecca, Clara, and Jenny squeal, practically in unison.
 

“No, no,” I say. “I can’t.”
 

“Danielle, you can,” Clara says. “We’ve been holding this spot for you and it’s almost our turn. Please show them how it’s done.”
 

I sigh. The annual renaissance faire trip is my favorite day of the year, but I never play the games. I never volunteer to be on stage, or approach cast members for themed conversation. When they approach me, I give the shortest response possible and turn away. I’m not good at… having fun. My energy goes toward worrying, across all dimensions: making a mistake, being judged, regretting a choice, you name it. But a throwing game, with my softball experience? I can probably do this without disaster. I can’t be worse than the people ahead of me, at least. And I promised myself that today’s the day I would push my own admittedly narrow comfort zone. If I can’t do something like this, how can I expect to have enough guts for a big career change?

“Fine!” I say.

My trio of friends squeaks in delight. They act like I’m doing something life-changing, not playing a fancy carnival game. Then again, these three know what I’ve been through and that for me, participating is kind of a big deal.
 

We watch another man miss three throws, then a teenage boy. Finally, it’s my turn.
 

I step up to the line and reach for my bag, but Rebecca is faster, pulling a five dollar bill out of her cleavage. “I got this,” she says and the others giggle. I give Rebecca the look that says, you don’t have to pay for me, which she ignores, and Jenny squeezes my shoulder. Rebecca reaches like she’s going to place the bill in my cleavage, but I pluck it from her hand
 

When my three girlfriends first saw me this morning, they said, “Wow, we didn’t know you had this rack!” I always wear high-neck shirts to teach high school, but there are no students in sight today, and it’s my day of being bold. I tuck my cleavage farther into my corset, to prevent slippage. I usually wear my “Stabby FMC” hoodie to faire, to rep my beloved romantasy Female Main Characters, so it’s my first time wearing this costume. It’s so far out of my comfort zone with its intent of squeezing and overflowing, but I’m determined to embrace the renaissance faire vibes today: magic, whimsy, a hint of indulgence.
 

I tug the corset up again, take a deep breath, and slap Rebecca’s five dollars onto the wooden counter. “I’d like to soak a bloke, please.”
 

“Please?” The line wench replies. “So polite!” She snaps the money before stuffing it into the sizable leather pouch at her hip. Watching her during this long wait in line, the woman never fusses with her own bustline spillage. The confidence that must take! She looks to the bloke perched on the plank in the dunk tank. The man—barely more than a boy—looks like the perfect apprentice-hero type: boyish grin with a definite chiseled-jaw situation in his future, and floppy blond hair. Not old enough to be the adult love interest, with the knee-length britches and open-collared white shirt, he could be the lowly-but-talented apprentice the young princess falls in love with in a YA forbidden romance fantasy. He’d appear to betray the princess at the end, but really be saving the day.
 

Line Wench pulls my attention back when she shouts, always loud enough for the crowd to hear, “Looks like you’re going to stay dry a while longer, Sam.”
 

Rotating the leather ball in my palm, I narrow my eyes at young apprentice Sam. He is looking far too dry. Hero or not, I’m taking him down. The ball is smaller than the softball I’m used to, but it will work fine. After watching all the attempts ahead of me while waiting in line—mostly men and kids—I understand I need both perfect aim and significant force to trigger the dunk mechanism.
 

Now the poor bloke speaks up. “I’m not sure the polite lass is ever going to throw—”
 

Smack.
 

“Shi—” the bloke says when my first throw is a mere inch from the target and clearly harder than any of the men’s efforts the past half hour.
 

My circle of friends cheers for me. “Yes, Danielle!” “You got this!”
 

I pick up the second ball, and pep talk myself like I used to during games: Come on, Danielle. Don’t blow it on your first attempt at trying something again. That’s not how it goes for book heroines, like Lynbell. I switch the ball to my left hand momentarily to wipe the sweat off my right hand onto my skirt. This is much easier than throwing the ball to home plate to cut off a run. I quickly check the girls to make sure nothing is popping out of my corset, eye my target, and throw again.
 

Thwomp-splash!
 

There’s a muffled yelp from Sam as he goes down. Line Wench raises her arms and the crowd cheers. Cheers for me. The young bloke pops his head out of the water and actually spits a stream of water from his mouth for comic effect. I laugh, not hiding my smile anymore. I pick up the third and final ball of my turn. My three friends are jumping up and down. “Do it again!”
 

“Yes, please do it again! This is the energy we need,” Line Wench says. She looks at the line behind me and the crowd that’s gathered. “Boys, take note of how it’s done. Please,” she calls to them, before winking at me.
 

I make sure my bloke is ready on his perch again. I don’t bother to check my neckline before my last throw, but I

do get an odd sensation—the often-described prickle at the back of the neck—that someone is watching me. Of course someone is watching me; the entire courtyard of a packed renaissance festival is watching me. But somehow there’s a new energy now, and it’s exhilarating. It inspires me to give a little extra flair for my final turn. I roll my shoulder and start my throw. My poor bloke muttering “oh no” at the last second almost distracts me, but it doesn’t.
 

Thwomp-splash!
 

The whoops and applause are even louder as Line Wench hangs a handmade wooden medallion on a twine around my neck. She raises my hand in the air and the people of this festival take the cue and cheer even a little louder.
 

“We knew you could do it,” Jenny says. 
 

“The look on his face!” Clara guffaws, slinging her arm around my shoulder.
 

“You mean Sam?” Rebecca says. “Smile!”
 

I realize she’s handed her phone to a stranger, to take a group photo in front of the medieval dunk tank. I haven’t stopped smiling, so I’m ready for the photo.
 

“Poor Sam,” Clara says.
 

He gets back on his perch with a slight grin on his face, waiting to be dunked by the next skilled contestant.
 

“He liked it!” Jenny bumps her hip into mine. She whispers in my ear, “and you look happy.”

Jenny taps the wooden disc hanging around my neck as she moves to follow our friends into the crowd. I pause to take it all in. There’s a crooked red heart painted on my new medallion. And I do feel like my heart is outside my body for a moment. I don’t remember the last time so many people cheered for me. On a softball field, probably, and definitely before the accident. My friends know how to push me, gently.
 

I know this will be a moment I remember for a long time, but I really should get out more.
 

#
 

“We have to stop at the bookstore!”
 

“Has a truer sentence ever been spoken?” I reply. “Can mead wait a little longer?”
 

My three friends agree, of course, because we’re all book nerds. Secret fantasy-loving book nerds, to be exact. Well, I might be the only one who keeps it secret. As a high school English teacher, I try to keep my image of preferring capital “L” Literature. But that’s real life, and renaissance festival day is my one day a year to not worry about real life. 
 

The bookstore at Maryland Renaissance Festival is small, packed with titles and magical knick-knacks, and feels made for us. All the sections are relevant to renn faire interests: medieval history, witchcraft, faerie manuals, fairytales, Shakespeare, and fantasy. Instead of beelining to fantasy like usual, I peruse the witchcraft section.

There’s a beautifully illustrated book with details on how objects from nature can be used to enhance herbal remedies and spells. I flip through the creamy pages and let my attention snag on a few captions of the prettiest pictures. The theme is similar to the way some people collect specific crystals to channel the certain energy they want, but this includes plants, bark, plain stones. It reminds me of the magic system in my favorite romantasy series—
 

“It’s Voss!” Jenny squeals, and more than one bookstore customer not in our party chuckles. There are other Voss fans here! Voss is the love interest and hero from my favorite romantasy series, The Realm of Two Moons by Brooklyn D. White.
 

“Danielle, do you have a special edition of book two yet, because this one is gorgeous!” Jenny hands me the book and just holding the beautiful object with my favorite story inside increases my happiness that much more. The book jacket has special fan art. Lynbell, the main character, is posed in front with her love interest Voss just over her shoulder. This particular artist has leaned into the lushness of their hair—cascading red waves for Lynbell and roguish, chocolate-brown chin-length locks for Voss. It’s effective. Lynbell’s focus is front, but Voss is sneaking a peak at her. To capture the character’s ongoing obsession with Lynbell that we all love.
 

That kind of connection we all want for ourselves.
 

And the dragon watches over both of them. Sigh. If only the fantasy plus romance plus freaking dragons was real life. A woman wouldn’t feel afraid of anything if she had her very own dragon best friend.
 

I wouldn’t feel so damn insecure about trying new things as simple as a faire game if I had a dragon and a Voss.

I’d definitely go for my dream job if I had those two for support.
 

Jenny nudges my shoulder.
 

My friends don’t exactly know that I’m considering a change.  “You know I don’t have any special editions,” I say as I literally pet the cover of the book I definitely do wish to own.
 

“Ah, right.” Jenny starts to pluck the copy out of my hand but I tug it back. She laughs. “Because you only need the one copy.”
 

“The words are the same.” I ruffle the book’s pages with the pretty sprayed edges featuring the two moon design.
 

“Ah, the two moons, but no sun, that defy science,” Jenny says, looking over my shoulder and sighing. “A good reminder it’s all a fantasy.”
 

“Actually, some super fans in this forum came up with a reasonable astronomical explanation,” I say. “It all has to do with our expectation of how planets orbit a sun. You see—”
 

Jenny interrupts me with a smile. “Girl, you are a super fan.” I clamp my mouth shut, no hard feelings. I take it farther than the others, and that’s okay. I needed this book more than they did.
 

“It’s too bad you didn’t get tickets to RomantasyCon,” Jenny says. “You could ask Ms. White yourself. And there would be even more special editions for you to longingly pet.” 
 

I roll my eyes and laugh. “That con sells out so fast.” Which is true, but the full truth is that I didn’t even try for tickets to the book convention taking place less than an hour from my house next weekend. Where Brooklyn White and so many of my favorite authors will be. Because it’s next weekend, and we had already picked renaissance festival for this weekend. Two in a row seems excessive. I’m a grown woman, with responsibilities to my students and colleagues. 
 

Our friend Clara slides over to join the teasing, and though she’s petite, you can always see her coming with her rotation of rainbow hair colors. For faire, it’s freshly dyed rainbow, in fact, which stands out gorgeously against the all-black pixie dress and accessories she’s rocking. She looks like a literal fairy or maybe a punk Rainbow Brite. 
 

“Your resistance to impulse book buying is admirable, but sad,” she says.
 

“Yes, well, my resistance to everything fun is sad.” I peek inside the book jacket, and the artwork is in stunning green foil. “Except renn faire day. I’m embracing fun today.”
 

“Speaking of,” Rebecca says, “Let’s check out and get to your friend’s pub sing. That’s always rowdy, with some of the sexiest costumes at faire!”
 

Sutton is a friend-of-a-teacher-friend who works at the renaissance festival every fall as an actor and singer, and

she’s doing a performance at the most popular festival pub soon. It’s the perfect spot to drink and enjoy the unmatched people watching of the faire. 

While Rebecca, Clara, and Jenny each purchase one or more books, I continue my inspection of the Realm of Two Moons special edition. I flip to the back flap where there’s a stunning black and white headshot of the author, Brooklyn D. White. I feel the usual small pang of jealousy. Not that I’m an aspiring fantasy writer. I just admire how the author created the entire world and characters, skillfully put it into the book form I’m holding in my hand, and that thousands, maybe millions of readers get so much joy from it. In my case, more than joy. Getting immersed in her world probably saved me. The story Brooklyn created is so real, it’s like Voss and Lynbell themselves pulled me out of a dark time. 
 

What an incredible impact a writer can have.
 

I can afford a fancy special edition book, but I’m saving for a rainy day. That’s my mother’s voice I hear in my head so clearly. And the past two years that chorus of hers has a new refrain: save for a rainy day, lord knows your brother is having one. And there’s truth to it. If I leave my steady teaching job for the one-year contract I want with a boutique travel magazine, I must spend wisely.
 

Sigh. I’m not supposed to be thinking about Grayson, his accident, or my parents’ expectations today. 
With one last caress of the book cover, I find its spot on the shelves—face out, of course—and put it back. Because

I will be spending my day’s set budget on a beer and a fried snack.
 

#
 

The open-air tavern is one of the most densely populated venues at faire, except for the jousting arena at show time. Even between musical sets, the decibel level under this pavilion is pushing it with loud stories and laughter. Friends old and new reconnect here across beer-sticky picnic tables, practically sitting on top of one another to all squeeze in. There’s no personal space and certainly no quiet. But somehow in this mass of energy, I feel comfortable just being an unnoticed part of it all.
 

I thought the cheering for my dunk take victory was loud. It’s nothing to the whooping and stomping crowd at Sutton’s pub sing. Renn faire people can throw down! And Sutton deserves it, as do the two other female singers and their all-women band. The music is joyful and sometimes naughty and beautifully executed.
 

I pop the last bite of my mac and cheese on a stick snack in my mouth as Sutton’s final applause go on and on.
 

“They’re so good!” Jenny shouts over the noise. I’m not sure if she means the band or the snack, but either way she’s right.
 

I call out Sutton’s name in one last cheer and then finally, it calms enough for conversation to be possible.
 

“Okay, we didn’t finish hearing about everyone’s reading with the fortune teller,” Jenny says, absently taking the flower crown off her head and twirling on a finger. It wasn’t our first visit to the renaissance faire fortune teller, but in the past we’ve gone as a group. This morning, we each went into the room solo. Jenny recaps, “I’m going to have a change at work—”
 

“And what’s new there?” I say. “You haven’t stayed in the same role for twelve months in the past decade.” I’m not sure I can handle the stress of one job change in 15 years, but Jenny somehow rolls with it.
 

“I like to keep the work fresh, since I’m committed to one man now,” Jenny quips. She fluffs her chin-length black hair and puts the flower crown back on. “And the fortunes say Clara should look for love next month.”
 

“I am always looking for love,” Clara says. “And I’m so glad I can take a break for these last two weeks of October.”
 

“It’s exhausting!” Clara and Rebecca say in unison. We all laugh at their little catchphrase for dating life. I’m single, too, I just don’t put myself out there enough to get tired of it. I don’t have the committed relationship of Jenny or the dating life of the other two. Just thinking about each of those opposing scenarios makes my skin hot. The amount you must put yourself out there for dating and relationships.
 

Clara tosses her rainbow hair. “Maybe I’ll go full fire-engine red hair for my return to dating in two weeks.” 
“Rebecca?” Jenny says, “what fortune is in store for you?”
 

Rebecca scoffs and leans in. “It was really dramatic and daunting, actually.” The rest of us murmur “uh-ohs” and “not cool.” “The fortune teller said an old feud is going to resurface and I need to prepare my wits and heart.”
 

“Ominous!” “So not cool!”
 

“What are some old feuds you have, Rebecca?” I ask.
 

“That’s the thing, I really can’t think of any!”
 

“You’re too nice!” “Oh you must have someone.”
 

It’s probably not healthy that when I think of a personal feud, my brain lands on my parents—because of our mis-matched expectations, arguments we’ve had about supporting my brother, all of it. This is why I’m in therapy.
 

We don’t get any name out of Rebecca for her feud speculation, so attention turns to me. I prepare to keep my voice light when I share my experience
 

“My fortune was some ‘woo-woo’ talk about pursuing my dream. Taking risks, blah-blah,” I say.
 

My friends are quiet a beat, for once. It’s unusual enough that I find myself sitting up straighter. I’m about to ask what’s going on when Jenny says, “Well you’re already living your dream—best English teacher in the tri-state area!” 
 

The girls agree. I laugh along, too, but do they suspect I’m not telling the full truth about my self-identity not being English teacher—or not anymore?
 

“So the fortune teller was a bit silly,” Rebecca says. “But the room was even cooler this year. Love the vibes.”
 

“All vibes, all the time,” Clara agrees.
 

I open my mouth to tell my friends that being an English teacher is actually not my dream. My true dream is travel writing, and I have an application nearly ready. I just need a day of inspiration to draft the perfect submission piece. But I’ve never told anyone that dream and my whole body heats because I was a second away from blurting it out. I’m sweating. Why? Why would I share it? Why haven’t I shared it?
 

Because I’m afraid that I’ll fail spectacularly like my brother. I don’t want to fail, and I don’t want my closest friends to know I’m already failing at doing the thing our beloved heroines teach us to do: have the adventures, embrace our true purpose, and be fierce doing it.
 

“Yoo-hoo,” Clara waves her hand in front of my face.
 

“Sorry,” I mutter.
 

“This is such a good spot, what about another round here before we do some more shopping?” Clara asks.
 

“Works for me, I don’t want to move yet,” Rebecca says.
 

I extricate myself from the bench to stand. “I’m taking a little break from the beer, but I’ll help get the round.”
 

“I’ll go, too.” Jenny stands with me. “That one bartender is hot!”
 

“Says the only married woman in the group!” Rebecca teases. 
 

“I gotta live somehow, since y’all aren’t flirting it up with any pirates, Vikings, kilted clansmen, Robin Hoods, or whatever that guy with the cape and the slick hair was,” Jenny says.
 

I know who Jenny means, but I keep my mouth shut.
 

Rebecca scrunches her forehead. “There are a lot of capes and fancy hair here.”
 

Jenny leans into me. “Come on, the one who hit on Danielle.”
 

“He wasn’t—” I start.
 

“The vampire!” Clara says. “A hot vampire. Remember the fangs sticking out?”
 

“He offered you a rose, called you gorgeous, and asked to sit with you,” Jenny says.
 

I cringe, recalling how I’d mumbled, “no, thanks.” It wasn’t even clear if I was talking about the rose, the seat, or both. I just wasn’t interested, then too embarrassed to clarify. He stood there a moment, then wandered away. I didn’t realize my friends had paid that much attention.
 

“Ah, yes.” Rebecca adjusts the neckline of her fair costume, though I’m pretty sure she’s pushing her boobs up higher, not checking for modesty. “A vampire who is definitely still pining over Danielle’s rejection. Are vampires in again?”
 

“It doesn’t matter here.” Jenny waves her hand around towards all the people, more than half dressed in some kind of costume, running the gamut from Halloween store quality to “just walked off a movie set.” The other half are in good ole’ American clothes, probably leaning toward more nerd culture graphic tees and sweatshirts than what you’d see at say, an amusement park. And there are always a half dozen people dressed in Star Trek or Star Wars gear because why not, this is a magical place.
 

“Excellent point,” Rebecca says. “And that,” she copies Jenny’s all-encompassing gesture, “is why we love it here. Jenny, will you please hold the table with Clara while I flirt with your hot bartender?” 
 

“Fine!” Jenny says. “Take him!”
 

As Rebecca talks drinks with the girls, I get the strange prickling sensation again, like someone is watching me. I stiffen, then turn a half circle, scanning the crowd for the feeling’s source. It’s silly, of course. There are hundreds of people around, and even if someone was looking at me, how would I notice? Plus, that’s what we’re all doing here—enjoying the epic people-watching.
 

Rebecca nudges my arm. “Looking for someone?” I shake my head no. “I mean besides your very own hottie straight from a romantasy novel? Because aren’t we all?”
 

“True!”
 

The line at the pub is long, but we expected that. Even just waiting in line for beer, this place is more magical than anywhere else I know. Maybe it’s the people the faire attracts—those that indulge their whimsical side with costumes and fun entertainment. People who like a good princess tale or believe in a small trinket can bring good luck. Maybe it’s that everyone here, including myself, embraces a day away from reality.
 

“You know it’s a perfect fall day,” I say to Rebecca as we wait, “when you can comfortably have your whole bosom exposed,” I indicate the both of us, “yet not be too hot wearing the faux-leather Spanx we’re pairing with our knee-high boots.”
 

Rebecca laughs and agrees. Though she is rocking the faux-leather Spanx with nothing obscuring the view of her shapely ass. We have similar tall, athletic builds and both have long, thick hair—Rebecca’s is a dirty blonde shade and mine is dark brown. I’m wearing a forest green peasant-style skirt over my leggings, with a hip-high slit in the front. Some leg action, while my booty is still covered. With the flat-heeled, well-worn boots, my ensemble is super comfy, except for my personal unease showing my substantial cleavage—I do naturally have more boob than Rebecca. Even my bag matches the ensemble because I’m wearing the gorgeous leather waist bag I bought from a vendor here a few years ago. I’d had my eye on it for at least two years before that, and finally splurged.

The few special items I’ve purchased at renn faire are some of my most prized possessions, but I haven’t bought myself something here since my brother’s accident. It doesn’t seem so important, in the big scheme of things.
 

“Danielle, you came to pub sing! Thank you!” Sutton is there and already pulling me into a hug. Speaking of things outside my comfort zone. But I go with the physical affection, she’s a very loving person.
 

“Yes, you were fantastic!” I say at the same time Rebecca lays on her own praise. I re-introduce them, though they’ve met the past few years at this annual outing. 
 

I soften my voice and take her hand. “Sutton, I haven’t seen you… I’m so sorry about your mom.” Her mom passed away from cancer, I think, earlier this year. I believe they really only had each other. The challenges I have with my family are nothing compared to her loss.
 

Sutton squeezes my hand. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” She heaves a big sigh. “It’s up and down, but being in this place? With these people, in this forest? It really saves me. These people are another family for me.”
 

“I’m so glad,” I say. 
 

“The people here are wonderful.” As if on cue, the couple in front of us in line also turn to praise Sutton, and she easily reverts to her renn faire character, saying, “Thank you, milord and lady” and throwing in a quick curtsy. I love that she does this even though the guests she’s engaging with are the variety in plain hoodies and sneakers.

She gives my arm a quick squeeze as a goodbye.
 

I love this place, but I also prefer that Sutton keep me out of the role play. My winner’s medallion gave me a taste of bravery, but I’d still rather observe than play along. 
 

And then I spot him, just over Sutton’s shoulder. He’s not looking at me right now but I know his presence must’ve been giving me that odd sensation because it’s Voss. He’s right there, moving through the crowd like he walked out of my favorite book. My sense of unease melts away because it’s really him.
 

Or maybe I’ve had more to drink than I realize.
 

I give my head a quick shake. It’s not Voss, but it’s damn good cosplay. Like, movie level.
 

“Holy shit, it’s Voss!” Rebecca says. “You have to go talk to him.” I tear my gaze from Voss for a second to confirm

Rebecca’s mouth is hanging open just like mine. While continuing to stare she says, 
 

“I will never forgive you if you don’t go talk to him.”

© 2026 Abbie Fine
 

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