So Giselle was making her way to the open field where all the tables and benches had been set up for eating and drinking, heading for the section near the beer stall of the barrel’s donor. The Maypole was in the center of the field; a group of children were unbraiding the ribbons so they could have a dance, and there was a little brass band tuning up to provide the music for it. There were appetizing aromas coming from all over the field, and once again, she reminded herself that she needed to keep as much of her prize money in her pocket as possible. After all, beer is food, right? It’s made from grains . . .

As Giselle approached, her fellow contestants got up and greeted her with congratulations and backslaps. They were a mix of all sorts, about two dozen all told, from young men in their late teens to grizzled old fellows with ancient, tarnished hunting badges on their wool hats. She accepted both congratulations and backslaps with modest thanks and veiled relief; although it hadn’t happened yet, there was always the potential for someone who took losing badly. She took her place on a stool placed at one end of a trestle table, the rough equivalent of a “high seat,” and nodded to the tender of the beer stall, who made a great ceremony out of knocking in the spigot on the special keg on the counter and starting to pour the brew.

She was rather pleased that she hadn’t needed the help of her Elementals all that much, which made the victory feel thoroughly earned. It had been a bit grueling; she’d needed every bit of her concentration.

She actually didn’t remember anything much except the shots that she had taken; when she was participating in a shooting contest, she concentrated on her targets to the exclusion of pretty much everything else. This had been one of those contests with clay plates strung up on a framework and an allowance of a single bullet for each plate; that was a good bit easier than actual targets. She was the only one who had cleared her frame of every plate, every time. The last contest had been a sort of shooting gallery with an actual target pulled across the field by a clockwork mechanism. All of her shots had been grouped in the center; her opponent’s had been in the first ring.

She settled down at the table with six of the other marksmen, who had watched eagerly while the keg was tapped and the enormous steins filled and handed round. She knew better than to just sip at hers; no man would ever take anything but hearty gulps, and she needed to make sure every one of her mannerisms was masculine. So she feigned to drink twice as often as she actually swallowed, and no one noticed because they were too busy enjoying themselves.