Page 10 of My Faire Lady

“Sorry. I mean—what can I help you with?”

I bite at the skin around my thumbnail. “I’m interested in the position you’re hiring for, but with a couple conditions.”

“Conditions?”

“I’m trying to build up a portfolio. If I’m the seamstress, can I make whatever I want as long as it sells?”

A pause. “What if it doesn’t sell?”

“It will sell.” My words sound far more confident than my mind is. But if they don’t sell, I don’t have a chance at winning the contest.

There’s a lull in her breathing, as if she’s muted me.

Heartbeats pass by in silence, then, “Do you have any experience in bartending?”

I don’t know the different between a malt and a stout. “Yes.”

“Great. How about this—you bartend in the mornings. In the afternoons, you can work the retail booth. Think you can handle that?”

Grimacing, I press the heel of my hand into my eyes. I shouldn’t have lied. But there’s an edge to her voice—a dare that makes it sound like she’s doubting whether or not I’m capable of handling both. In reality, I’m not.

“Of course, I can handle that.”

“If you prove that you can sell the pieces you make, you can take over the retail booth full time. But right now, we need a barmaid far more than we need a seamstress. And you get to keep all your tips.”

I’ll already have limited time to work on my portfolio for the entry, and working both positions will only cut that time in half. But what other choice do I have?

“Fine.” I shift and lean my temple against the wall. “Do you need to ask me any questions? An interview? Background check, or something like that?”

The line goes silent again, and I squint at the screen, but the call hasn’t dropped. Like she’s muting me to talk with someone else. Within seconds, her voice comes back.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

My brows lift, and I straighten from the wall. My feet move on their own accord, pacing around the oval kitchen table. “Let me check.” I pretend to flip through a stack of paper, as if my weekends aren’t always completely free. After an appropriate amount of time fake-searching my nonexistent calendar, I say, “I’ll have to shift some things around, but I think I can make that work.”

“Great. I’ll meet you at the Queen’s Gate at eight.”

There’s a hesitation to her voice, so slight, one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t paying attention. But in the moments I spent silent at my grandmother’s bedside, I learned how to pay attention to everything—to the smallest shift in tone or breath. But why the hesitation, I’m unsure. Unless she already regrets hiring me.

I gnaw at my lip. “Sounds good.”

“And whatever you wore today, wear something like that. You looked great.”

My pacing halts, and I stand frozen in the center of the kitchen.

“I mean,” she says, the words tumbling out of her mouth, “it was in character. Very, well, historically accurate.”

My lips quirk into a smile. “Huh. I thought I should wear some armor to work the bar. A helmet would really pull the outfit together.”

She chuckles, and warmth billows beneath my skin.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lottie.”

My smile widens. “See you tomorrow, Scarlet.”

5

“No more meddling.” I point a finger at Dryden, the tiny sprite hovering eye level. “If she quits, we’ll have no one to work the booths, and if we have no one to work the booths, your little forest will become a five bed, four bath mini mansion.”