Page 50 of My Faire Lady

My tongue is lead in my mouth, but I wrap my fingers around the fabric and trace the pad of my thumb over the delicate embroidery. “Remind me again what I’m supposed to do.”

“It’s easy.” He points toward the herald. “When he says something about the princess favoring one of the knights, you’ll go down there and hand Jeremy the handkerchief. Then you’ll stand near the bottom of the stands and watch, pretending to be invested in Jeremy’s well-being. You don’t have to do or say anything else.” He pats the hand I have clenched around the arm of the wooden throne. “The hardest part is getting down the stairs without slipping.”

“Okay. Right. I can do this.” I tuck the handkerchief into the top of my corset.

The herald sweeps an arm toward the booth. Toward me. “It appears Princess Lottie wishes to extend her favor toward one of our competitors today.”

Coos come from the crowd. I swallow, regretting every decision that has led to this point and wishing a rogue streak of lightning would fry me.

But I’ll play the part of the damn princess if it means helping Scarlet.

With a broad smile, I stand and ease out of the booth. The leather soles of my shoes slip on the wooden steps, but I cling to the rail and focus my attention on Scarlet. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, face unreadable, and yet, her gaze never strays from me as I descend.

Rain soaks my dress and drips down my neck, pooling at my chest where the corset meets skin. Scarlet swallows, tightening her grip on the reins as water rolls from her hair onto her chest plate.

Fairgoers clap as I pass. I nod to each of them with a smile, and the worry pressing on me lessens as I slow at the foot of the stands.

I crouch under the barricade rope, steer myself around a puddle, and come to a stop in front of Jeremy. Scarlet’s horse shifts to my right, and despite the weight of her gaze on my shoulders, I don’t look.

“Princess Lottie,” the herald says, his voice booming through the arena, “you may now extend your favor.”

Both steeds bow their heads, and I step toward Jeremy, pulling the handkerchief from my corset with a flourish that rouses the crowd. Jeremy extends his hand and accepts the fabric, and I don’t miss the smirk he sends Scarlet’s way as he ties it around his lance.

He lifts it into the air. Cheers braid with a crack of thunder, and the earth rumbles beneath my feet. Rain streams down my hair and trails down my spine, sending a shiver in its wake.

Finally, I sneak a glance toward Scarlet.

She slips her helmet on and jerks the reins, steering her horse to the opposite side of the field. An ache pierces my chest.

The herald, who, upon closer inspection has fake vampire teeth, ushers me to my reserved spot at the base of the stands.

He turns back to the crowd and spreads his arms wide. “Let the joust begin! Sir Jeremy and Lady Scarlet, prepare yourselves!”

They lower their lances and balance them in the crooks of their elbows. My heart hammers in my chest, faster than the raindrops pelting Scarlet’s helmet. She does this every weekend, multiple times a day, yet this is the first time there’s been a storm overhead. The horse’s hooves could slide across the mud, throw Scarlet from the saddle. Or Jeremy’s lance could slip and slam into the weak spots in her armor.

She could get hurt.

Boden stands from his throne and lifts the bugle from the column. “May the better knight win!”

He brings it to his lips, and the horn echoes through the arena. The crowd screams, and my fingernails dig into the wooden rail as the horses charge, hooves sinking into mud.

Scarlet tightens her grip on the lance, and the screaming crowd rises to a din, buzzing in the air and nipping at the exposed skin of my arms.

I stop breathing.

The horses meet in the middle, and Scarlet’s lance strikes Jeremy’s shield, pitching him sideways. Metal clatters, and he regains his balance, maintaining his steed as it trots to the opposite end of the field.

My grip loosens on the rail.

The herald raises his arms. “A mighty clash! And for our first round, a victory for Lady Scarlet!”

Scarlet gallops along the front of the stands, and the crowd tosses roses her way.

“But can ye lady maintain the lead?” the herald yells.

Jeremy and Scarlet line up a second time, and the crowd chants. While I make out undercurrents of Jeremy’s name, the majority is clear—they want Scarlet to win. I watch her, as she situates the shield on her forearm and adjusts her helmet to sit square on her head—her auburn hair soaked, clinging to her armor.

She thinks it’s me bringing people back to the faire, but she’s wrong.