“No, but—okay, you’re not supposed to know this.” I glance at her briefly. “I only know because I’m headlining now.”
“Secret,” she says. “I swear.” Like I wasn’t gonna tell her anyway.
“So Shirl’s transforming this year, on opening day.”
“Shut up.”
“Right?”
“How? To what?” Tavia asks, rapid-fire, and I know I’m beaming. I can’t help it. I wait all year for this, and now opening day is only two weekends away.
“A mage wedding.”
“So, what? She’s just not a mermaid anymore?”
“She’s being enchanted by her intended, doy. She’s becoming a land-liver, if you can believe it.”
“I cannot. All her Captain Jack wannabes lavished gifts on her just to lose out to a magician. But the poor kids! They love that old bag; she’s an institution.”
“Right, but now they have me.”
At that, Tavia turns to face me completely and proceeds to punch my arm excitedly, and repeatedly.
“Speaking of enchantments,” I say through a flinch, pointing toward the glove compartment.
As intended, her attention is immediately diverted. Inside, she finds my kit and hands it over, settling against the passenger door to watch me prepare. If she were anyone else, my scalp would be on fire and my skin would feel parched to cracking. It’s Tavia, though, so under her watch, I apply my scales.
I don’t wear makeup—I’ve never beat my face to the gods or whatever—but I don’t set foot on the fairegrounds without a hint of Euphemia. I won’t be in the water today, and there’ll be no audience, so instead of my appliqués, I brought along my scallop stencil and highlighter. Within seconds, Tav’s cooing and wiggling in her seat.
“Not too much for setup,” I say, dusting my cheekbones and temples a couple of times before handing the supplies back and gesturing for the final piece.
“Your potion, m’lady,” Tavia says when she hands over the jewelry.
“Mer-lady,” I correct her, and Tav bursts into laughter the way basically no one else ever does when I make a joke. At this rate, my face is gonna be sore from smiling.
I clasp the chain around my neck and then hold the mini apothecary jar between my finger and thumb. The label is yellowed, but the calligraphy is elegant. I can’t help but sigh at the sight.
It’s land-walking potion. A gift from Elric, so that we can spend time together outside the Cove. Anytime I’m not wearing one of my tails, I’m walking the grounds with my betrothed, wearing a simple white peasant’s dress—and my bare feet.
When Mom gave me my first land-walking potion, I broke character. I was so shook by the suggestion that I gaped at her, reminded her how she told me only white kids are allowed to run around barefoot.
That was in the real world, she told me. “Out there,” which is what she always called it. Like in our hearts we were always in the Renaissance faire, and only the two of us knew it. (Besides, the grounds are mostly plush, lovely grass, and I always end up back in the water.)
I uncork the bottle and take what amounts to four drops of sugar water on my tongue.
I’m ready.
The park is beautiful. The grounds are so green, they look ripe. Tech hands are wearing present-day electric tools in their belts, but underneath them are long skirts or men’s boots that rise to mid-thigh.
I smile when I hear my name—Euphemia—and I sign a few greetings, like my voice isn’t land-ready yet. (I always try to keep them wanting.)
Really, I’m looking for Elric. I spy his father’s storefront, a polished wood frame with an open roof above the forge. Attached, the matching wood of a vendor’s counter, and beside all of it, the blacksmith’s tent.
There’s a temporary addition to the wood-burned sign.
“And son,” I read the cloth out loud. I’m holding my potion jar before I notice. “Elric’s made second smith.”
I always enjoy the story of Euphemia and Elric, but once I’m on the fairegrounds, I get downright swoony. I haven’t even been to the Cove yet, but I grab Tavia’s hand and take a spin around the fairegrounds. My excitement is only slightly deflated when I’ve snaked between the stands and tents and back and forth along the main way and there’s no Elric to be found.
“I guess we missed him,” Tav says.
“I guess.”
“I bet he left something for you at the Cove.”
I give her a smirk. She knows him almost as well as I do. Now that we live together, she’s gotten to see every gift he’s left on our doorstep and every letter I’ve received in the mail. It starts up about this time every year, two weekends before opening day. He always makes sure our paths don’t cross, but Elric leaves notes, potions, or handmade gifts on our porch before stealing away into the night. They’ll all come to live here, come opening day. I’ll bring my cassone to display beside my tank, a gorgeous carved and polished chest for my keepsakes. Or dowry, technically.
“Should we go check the Cove?” Tav asks, her brow cocked to entice me.
“In a minute. First things first.”
I don’t think Tavia’s ever been to the Vancouver grounds, and there’s something she has to see.
“This is the Hidden Scales,” I tell her when we’re standing in front of it. “This is the tent where everything’s decided. It’s the epicenter of the faire and our stories.”
She takes in a breath and it feels so appropriately reverent that I can’t help looking at the pavilion with her, taking it in from top to bottom like I haven’t seen it a thousand times before.
The scallop trim around the circular top, the thick green stripes against the white canvas.
“It’s so … modest,” Tav almost whispers.
“Yeah.”
“But like…” Her forehead creases when her eyebrows do.
“I know,” I answer. “There’s something about it. It’s nothing compared to the queen’s double-belled wedge tent with the elaborate awnings. I mean, size-wise, it’s barely bigger than the fortuneteller’s.” I gesture down the main way, and neither of us look. “But this one has a skirt of fog. This one has secrets. Secrets Mom knew. And one day I will, too.”
We stand in silence for a moment or two, letting the cold fog pool at our ankles. There’s definitely an ambiance that comes with the thick white smoke constantly coiling around the tent’s base. It makes me wonder whether there’s anything inside but a rickety table, a ledger, a quill and accompanying ink, and a fog machine.
Even in the off-season, I don’t dare peek inside. Some things are just sacred.
“We’d better get to work,” I say after one final sigh, and Tav seems just as reluctant to leave as I am.
We both glance back at the striped tent, but only I see it.
Only my view is interrupted by an annoying (and worrisome) water mirage. The distortion blurs the space just in front of the flaps, and keeps me from looking away for a moment.
I grab Tavia’s hand, but I don’t mention it.
The sprites have never come to the fairegrounds.
As far as I know.
No. Eff that. This is my safe place.