“Oh, call me Irene, dear. We’re friends now, no need for formalities,” she says with a light, airy laugh.
“Alright then, Irene. Are you enjoying the fair so far?” I ask, lifting my teacup to my lips.
Outside the tent, the fair stretches across Hawthorn’s dusty grounds. It’s a three-day event that stirs the whole town to life. Ranchers parade their finest livestock, ribbons are awarded forpies, and vendors call out from beneath striped canopies, selling everything from quilts to licorice sticks. There’s even a sideshow this year, a traveling crew of people with unusual talents and stranger appearances.
Yesterday, I spent the entire day under the Albright family tent. My uncle was busy talking business with ranchers, while my aunt entertained their wives over tea and politely forced laughter. I was expected to sit, smile, and engage with women I’d never met before—and likely would never see again. The heat of the summer sun had clung to the canvas walls like a second skin, and by the end of the day, I felt like I was drowning in the weight of polite conversation and thinly veiled expectations.
But Irene is a breath of fresh air.
She smiles again as my aunt excuses herself to tend to another guest. Leaning in slightly, Irene lowers her voice and fans herself with an ivory-handled fan. “The fair,” she says, “is really for the men and their beasts. We women are expected to occupy ourselves with dainty sandwiches and strained pleasantries. If I eat one more pastry, my girdle may give out altogether.”
A startled laugh escapes me, and I cover my mouth with a gloved hand. “Irene!”
She waves her hand, unbothered. “Oh, please—we’re all thinking it.”
I glance around the tent, then back at her. “I must admit, I’d been looking forward to the fair. But so far, all I’ve done is pour tea and entertain women whose names I already can’t remember. It’s...exhausting.”
“You’re a dutiful niece, my dear,” she says, folding her fan with a soft click.Her eyes twinkle with something conspiratorial. “But tell me, are you planning to attend the Founder's Dance tonight?”
I tilt my head. “The Founder's Dance?”
She brightens. “It’s tradition for the final night of the fair. Music, dancing under the stars. It’s my favorite part of the whole event.”
I glance toward my aunt across the tent. “My aunt hasn’t mentioned it.”
Irene gives me a knowing look. “Then it’s a good thing I have.” She suddenly raises her voice, calling across the space, “Isadora!”
My aunt startles, turning our way, a wary expression settling over her features.
“I’ve invited your dear Clara to the Founder's Dance this evening,” Irene continues smoothly. “I’ll be her chaperone and will have her home at a perfectly respectable hour.”
Isadora approaches, her lips pressed thin. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s?—”
Irene doesn’t let her finish. “Let the poor girl enjoy herself. She’s been the very model of grace and patience in this tent the past two days. Consider it a well-earned reward.”
My aunt’s hands fidget at her waist. I rise from my seat and face her fully.
“Aunt Isadora,” I say gently, “I’ll stay close to Mrs. Montgomery the whole evening. May I please go?”
She sighs, her shoulders dropping in resignation. “You’ll be home by ten. And you’ll stay close to Irene.”
“I swear I’ll be respectful.”
Her eyes flit between us, then settle reluctantly on Irene. “Very well. But she’s in your hands. Please remember what’s expected of her.”
“Of course, Isadora,” Irene replies, her tone just innocent enough to pass.
As my aunt walks away, Irene gives me a wink, and I suddenly feel lighter than I have in days. The air inside the tent feels a little easier to breathe.
I sit perchedon the edge of the velvet settee in the front room, nerves coiled tight beneath my ribs. It's not yet six, but I’ve been ready for some time—dressed in a soft blue gown that hugs the waist and falls like water around my legs. I pinned my hair back with trembling fingers, smoothed a final touch of powder over my cheeks, and now I’ve taken refuge behind a book from the library, though I couldn’t tell you a single word I’ve read. The pages blur, my thoughts too excited for stories.
The old clock in the hall begins to chime. One. Two. Three…
By the sixth strike, I hear the engine of a car coming up the drive.
I stand just as my aunt enters the room, her expression a portrait of composed reluctance.
“Just remember, dear,” she says, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “Stay close to Irene, and I’ll expect you to represent the family well.”
