Page 9 of My Faire Lady

“You mean like the way I left you?”

I shake my head. “It’s not the same.”

“You can’t take me into consideration when you make decisions regarding your life. You’re my sister, not my mother.”

Her words sting. Even when grandma was healthy, I was responsible for Kelsey. With the five-year gap, I was the one making her school lunches, waking her up on time. I taught her how to braid her hair and tie her shoelaces. Grandma was there for the official things, like conferences and doctor appointments, but for the minuscule, monotonous tasks, it was me.

She settles into the sagging crook of the corner. As she drapes her favorite quilt over herself, I know it’s only a matter of time until she’s snoring.

Her eyes settle on me. “Promise you’ll consider it? For me?”

I swallow and nod. “I promise.”

Silence stretches out between us, but a scream from the horror movie shatters it and Kelsey yelps, yanking the quilt to her chin. We share a brief, tight smile, and I return to watching the movie. Or at least I pretend to.

The actors and actresses flit across the screen, but I picture myself in Scotland, foot working the pedal of a sewing machine while I focus all my attention on a bolt of fabric, molding it into a priceless piece of art. That’s what it would be, right? No longer a hobby, but art. A career, even.

A light snore vibrates the air, and I sneak a glance at Kelsey. Her head tilts back against the throw pillow, eyes pressed shut.

There’s half an hour left in the movie, but I turn it off and push to my feet, collecting the empty pizza box and Styrofoam soda cups. Bits of popcorn litter the floor, but I brush past them, saying a silent promise to grandma’s ghost that I’ll vacuum first thing in the morning.

Dumping the trash into the bin, I sidestep to the counter and lift my phone. A slip of paper falls off the edge and flutters to the floor, landing face up.

The name stares back at me. Scarlet.

If I did enter the contest, my portfolio would have to be inspired by the Renaissance. It’s the period I’ve spent most of my time researching, and I’ve practiced all of the methods they used to create clothing. I don’t have the knowledge or practice to branch out into other disciplines. Not yet.

But to be truly authentic, the pieces would have to be made of fabric I don’t have readily available at the craft store. And I don’t have a fraction of the budget needed to personally order the materials, or the equipment.

But a Renaissance Faire would.

Bending at the knee, I scoop the paper from the black and white checkered tile. I roll it between my fingers, fraying the edges as my gaze flicks to the clock. An incessant ticking echoes through the kitchen, counting every individual second. I purse my lips. It’s nearly ten.

But that man with the elf ears did say Scarlet would pick up at any hour, and if they’re that desperate to hire someone, maybe I can start tomorrow. I have six weeks until the contest entry is due.

I do the calculations in my head. It’ll be tight, creating a bespoke piece in that time, especially only working on the weekends. But maybe I can make it work.

I tiptoe to the doorway to the living room and peer around the corner. Kelsey lies there, peacefully asleep, but a tornado could whip through the place and even that wouldn’t stir her.

Nerves creep up my spine, and I press my back against the floral wallpaper, heart pounding in my throat. I’m not sure whether it’s the thought of entering a potentially life-altering contest, or the possibility that Scarlet will pick up the phone.

Before I can second guess myself, I tap the phone number into the keypad and press call.

My pulse skyrockets with each unanswered ring, and pressure builds in my chest as the seconds pass. I rip the phone away from my ear and go to press end, but a voice cuts through the static.

“Hello?”

Her voice is groggy, gravelly, and I picture her pushing auburn hair out of her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she sits up in bed.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, tripping over my words. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I know it’s late, but I thought you’d still be up, considering it’s Saturday, and well—never mind. I can call back tomorrow.”

“Wait.” There’s a rustle of sheets, then, “Who is this?”

Right. I clear my throat. “It’s Lottie? From earlier today?” Why am I speaking in questions? I press my fingertips to my forehead and steady my breathing. “I tripped into you, then the man dressed like an elf offered me a job.”

Something clatters on the other end, and she curses under her breath. “Lottie?”

“Yes?”