Page 3 of My Faire Lady

He drags a foot through the dirt. “We haven’t been making enough to pay the property taxes. We’re already past the grace period, and they’re giving us three months to come up with the funds.”

I rip the letter out of the envelope and unfold it, scanning the numbers without making sense of them. “But we were able to pay it last year. What’s changed?”

He blows out a breath. “I’ve been around since your ancestors were hiding here during the Salem witch trials. Back then, there was nothing but forests for miles and miles. Now, they’re developing housing communities, and the property taxes keep going up every year. And if we don’t have anyone show up for the faire…”

“What are you saying?” I breathe. “What happens if we don’t pay?”

“It won’t matter if the land is losing magic. If we can’t pay the taxes, we lose the land.”

2

“It’s been years since I’ve been here,” I say.

We cross the drawbridge under Queen’s Gate, and Kelsey hands a pair of tickets to a man at the entrance—his entire body covered in fur, save for his face. I narrow my eyes and fight back a grimace.

Bigfoot? At a Renaissance Festival? He turns his back to us and scans the tickets.

I lean toward my sister, flicking my gaze at the man’s hairy back. “This isn’t very historically accurate.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not meant to be historically accurate. Come on, Lottie. It’s my birthday. Let’s have some fun without you worrying whether the corsets have authentic steel rods in them, or whatever they were made with.”

“Actually, whalebone was typically used for boning. But in some cases, dried reeds were more comfortable, but⁠—”

She gives me a blank stare.

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Your birthday. Having fun.”

Her face breaks into a wide smile, and the glitter she applied across the bridge of her nose catches the sunlight. Behind her thick-rimmed glasses, her blue eyes crinkle, and I etch the sight into my memory. It’s only the beginning of summer, but the weeks will go fast. Before I know it, she’ll be starting her senior year of college on the other side of the country.

This is our last summer together.

Bigfoot wraps a neon orange band around Kelsey’s wrist, securing it before he turns to me. Fur coats the knuckles of his gloves and creeps up the back of his hand.

I tilt my head, admiring his knack for costume design. I open my mouth to ask him what stitch pattern he used to hide the seam, but before the words leave my lips, Kelsey thanks him and pushes me through the wrought iron gates.

She snatches a map from a small woven basket and purses her lips, studying it. “Where to first?”

I don’t answer as a cautious smile spreads over my face. My memories of coming here with grandma are blurry at best, but it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time—nostalgia coating the back of my throat.

Three paths diverge from the entrance, and Kelsey weaves her arm through mine, pulling me toward the left. Tudor style buildings line each side of the packed dirt, tucked into the dense trees as if they’ve been here longer than the forest itself. Chimneys jut from their curved rooflines, and from the arched doorways, strung flags shift in the hot breeze.

While the majority of the flowers in the window boxes are underwatered, and knobby roots protrude from the uneven ground, there’s a certain magic to it all. An old-world charm that is hard to find on the other side of the freeway.

A tavern door slams open, and a man dressed as a pirate staggers out. He promptly retches into a trash bin.

Charm gone.

I grimace at Kelsey, and she answers with a shrug, guiding me in the opposite direction. My hem drags through the dirt, and I wince as an errant twig catches the thread of the chemise I sewed by hand. Untangling the stick, I drag a palm down the corset I spent dozens of hours teaching myself how to make. It’s rudimentary at best, and the seams aren’t quite straight, but it’s the first one I’ve ever made.

Kelsey scoffs, eyeing me. “Told you not to wear your historically accurate clothes.”

A muscle tics in my jaw, but I push my mess of curls out of my face and draw in a deep breath—always the one to avoid a confrontation.

I grin—a little too bright. “Mead?”

She snaps the map shut and nods, pulling me toward a bar advertising two things: mead and turkey legs. A woman leans an elbow on the counter, tapping her nails against the worn wood, and looks up through thick lashes as we approach.

“Finally, some customers.” She straightens, and her loose blonde curls fall to the waist of her cinched corset. A band of daisies sits on the crown of her head, and she gives us a warm smile. “What can I get for you?”