Page 17 of My Faire Lady

I fit the rusted skeleton key into the lock, and Lottie leans over my shoulder, her breath skimming across my collarbone. Something brushes against my opposite elbow, and I glance over, just in time to catch the faint glimmer of a sprite darting away.

The key turns without any resistance.

Scratch that. I’m killing them all.

“Looks like if I’m ever locked out, I just need to find you,” Lottie says as she pushes the door open.

She slides in past me, giving me a smile that muddies my thoughts. I follow her in and grimace at the racks of pantaloons, skirts, and corsets that haven’t been touched since last year. Apparently, the seamstress who quit didn’t prepare the shop the way she said she did.

I drag a finger across a display shelf, and it comes back coated in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs dangle from mannequins, and I really should have checked to make sure there weren’t any creatures making a home in here during the off season. Something tells me Lottie wouldn’t appreciate the winged rats.

She wanders through the second doorway, disappearing from view as I yank open the dressing room curtain and check for any inexplicable beings.

A gasp comes from the back room.

My heart lurches into my throat, and I throw myself toward her, the floorboards threatening to trip me. I grip the door frame and sweep into the cramped storage room.

“What—”

The words die on my lips as she wraps her hands around a tarp and peels it back, exposing a sewing machine.

She crouches, inspecting it at eye level. “How did you get this?” Her lips curl into a smile, and it only widens as she glances toward me.

I lift a brow at the sewing machine I’ve never seen. Rust clings to the edges—the silver letters so worn with time I can’t make out what they say.

“I’m not sure, but we have a better one over here.” I point at the industrial sewing machine sitting beside a wall of colored thread and bolts of fabric.

Her eyes widen. “How could I use that when you have a Singer Model 1.” She returns her attention to the ancient sewing machine, and as she drags her finger over the label. Another gasps comes from her, louder this time. “Scarlet! This is the Model 1. You have the first ever sewing machine manufactured by Singer!” In the semicircle gap between the top and base of the machine, she freezes and narrows her eyes at me. “How do you have this?”

The Murrell witches were notorious for stealing precious artifacts in the mid 1800s, but over time the items have gathered dust, and I can’t tell the difference between a pile of worthless metal and something of value.

I shrug. “Family heirloom.”

She watches me for a moment, as if she’s deciding whether or not to call me out on my lie.

But she takes another glance at the sewing machine and quirks her lips. “Sure beats my family heirlooms.” Grazing a finger over the neck of the machine, she sighs and replaces the tarp.

My brows furrow. “You don’t want to use it?”

Gnawing on her lip, she shakes her head. “No. That machine should be used by someone who has mastered the art of sewing. Not a beginner.”

“You don’t believe in your work?”

She rounds the sewing machine and stops at the craft table between us. Her finger traces a circle around the pocked wood. “There’s a big leap between creating something for my own enjoyment and making something worthy of winning a contest.” A shrug. “I’m not sure if it’s something I’ve earned yet.”

The corset she wore yesterday rivals the ones we stock here, but I bite down on the compliment and curl my hand into a fist, the loose splinters in the wood scratching against my skin. I should say something—encouragement, perhaps. But words tumble over themselves in my mind, and none of them make it past my lips.

“I have a proposition,” she says, heaving her bag off her shoulders.

She sets it down carefully on the tabletop and leans forward on her elbows, leveling me with a wry smile.

I lift a brow and match her posture. “I’m listening.”

She unlatches her bag and pulls out a corset. Ribbon crisscrosses up the center, and delicate lace lines the edges of the floral fabric.

Smoothing it out, she holds it up. “I made this a few months ago at the craft store I work at. How much do you think it’s worth?”

I hum and tap my fingers against my lips. “Fifty dollars?”