Page 38 of My Faire Lady

I adjust the ties of my corset and set off toward the footbridge spanning the stream. Silence blankets me like a quilt, and I curl around the outskirts of the faire before any visitors arrive. From the first time I came here with Kelsey, the traffic has steadily increased with every weekend.

Digging into the pouch at my waist, I pull out my sketches and lean against a tree tucked between the apothecary and a jeweler. A layer of dew clings to the grass, and across the quad, Kelsey props open the door to Lottie’s. A brand new sign swings from wrought iron hooks within the eaves, and I smile, settling against the bark.

Beyond helping Scarlet with the faire, I’ve holed myself up in the backroom of the shoppe, sketching and measuring and sewing pieces for my portfolio. But the design for the frontrunner piece continues to elude me, like sand slipping through my fingers. It needs to remain true to the period, but I can’t play it safe and expect to win. It has to be unique and bespoke, and⁠—

Jeremy steps into the quad, Scarlet at his side. Her jousting armor catches the early sun, and I lean my head against the tree, watching her walk. The plated armor hugs her shoulders, circles her chest, but even with her legs partially encased in metal, she strides with such graceful ease.

Every bit of her is strong, but there’s also a delicacy, a gentleness to her that⁠—

My breath catches.

That’s it.

Clenching the sketches, I shove myself away from the tree and cross the quad, the wild grasses tangling around my ankles. Scarlet turns in my direction, auburn hair catching in the wind, and our eyes lock. As her lips quirk, a vise clamps around my lungs, squeezing tight.

I should keep my distance. And yet— “I need a favor.”

Jeremey lifts a brow.

Scarlet shifts her jousting helmet to her other hip, eyeing the papers in my hand. “What is it?”

Unclasping my pouch, I pull out a pencil and lay the paper flat against Scarlet’s chest plate, brushing her hair out of the way. Her breath hitches, and a breeze floats by, dragging tendrils of her hair across my jaw.

“The frontrunner needs to be unique,” I start, dragging the graphite across the page in sharp, short strokes. “I want to incorporate something completely unexpected into the traditional Renaissance clothing—something they’ve never seen before.”

“And how am I meant to help you?” Scarlet murmurs, her body still as I sketch.

I sweep long lines down the page, forming the skirt of a gown in a rough image, not at all the precise drawings I’ll perfect later. Scarlet raises a brow, waiting for my answer, but I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and draw plates of armor across the shoulders and a Valkyrie helmet on the model’s head.

At the last second, I add a scabbard and sword across the shoulder. If I can include some sort of blacksmith expertise into the sewing, it’ll give me an edge.

But it isn’t so much the outfit that will help me win. It needs to be a story. A character.

“The favor,” I say, adding the finishing touches, “is you being my model.”

I pull the paper from her chest and hold it out for her to see. Her brows pinch, and she eases it from my hands, studying it.

She shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

My stomach drops, but I widen my eyes. “Please.”

A sigh. “Don’t you think you should have someone else model? Kelsey or Frankie perhaps?”

“But you’re the knight here. There’s a whole authentic story behind it.”

She passes the paper back, her lips set in a firm line. “I don’t have enough time.”

Jeremy pulls his helmet off, and a smirk lifts his lips. “Why not settle it with some archery? If Lottie gets closer to the bullseye, Scarlet will be the model. But if Scarlet is closer, she won’t.”

Scarlet shakes her head. “That doesn’t seem entirely⁠—”

“That would be great.” I snatch the sketch from Scarlet’s hand and bury it in my pouch.

“Have you ever even fired an arrow?” Scarlet says, unamused.

I smile. “Never.”

But if it gets me one step closer to Scarlet agreeing, I’ll take it.