Page 33 of My Faire Lady

Out of the corner of my eye, Scarlet takes a step closer, but the mermaid shoots her a look, and she freezes.

A smile pulls at the mermaid’s mouth. “We’re sirens, actually, and for years we’ve asked Scarlet to change the name of our attraction to Siren’s Cove, but she never listens—saying it’ll scare people away. But humans crave a bit of danger, don’t they?”

She tilts her head, almost animalistic.

I nod, my tongue cotton. “It would certainly set this faire apart from others.”

“And while we enjoy our space, maybe more people would come if there was a footbridge over the water.” She jerks her chin to the cliff-like walls on either side of the cove and smirks. “Tell pretty Scarlet over there that we promise we won’t sing.”

I’m unsure whether I should laugh at the joke or not, so a mix between a ‘yes’ and a nervous chuckle comes from my mouth.

The mermaid—siren—whose name I still don’t know, shifts on her rock, and her tangerine tail catches the light. I shield my eyes, and her fingers curl around the lip of the stone, her nails filed into points.

I think I prefer Frankie’s tail.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say, as a cloud passes over the sun and casts a shadow over the cove. “Do you ever get any closer to the shore? Maybe we can set up some sort of wading pool so the fairgoers can get closer and talk to you? Ask you questions?”

She pulls her long, midnight hair over her shoulder and twists the locks into a braid. “No, we wouldn’t want anyone to drown.”

Again, I let out a strange mix of words and a half-hearted laugh. “Well, I’ll get started on the changes right away. If you need anything else, I’ll be at the shoppes.”

She gives me a sweet smile. “You’re welcome back whenever you’d like, Lottie. But next time, don’t bring Scarlet.”

Without explanation, she pushes off the rock and disappears into the water, leaving a ripple in her wake. The moment she’s out of sight, Scarlet appears at my side.

Her lips press into a thin line, and she eases me away from the water. “Let’s go. I’m sure your customers are already waiting outside the gate.”

She takes off toward the incline, and I jog to catch up. “What did you do to piss them off?”

“Who?”

I narrow my eyes. “The sirens.”

“I just don’t like water,” she grumbles.

My lips quirk. “You’re afraid of water?”

“No, just their water.” Her pace picks up. “Let’s go before I decide to drain their pond.”

She climbs the incline with ease as I struggle to catch my breath. We round the switchback, and warmth creeps back into the air, melting the chill clinging to my skin. Before the cove disappears behind us, I sneak a final glance over my shoulder, where one of the sirens stares, dark eyes following us.

A shiver snakes down my spine, and I swallow, forcing my attention back to the path.

Maybe this is where those rumors came from.

13

Ipeel my hands from the steering wheel one finger at a time and relax my aching, clenched jaw. Once a week I take a short drive into town for groceries and any supplies the creatures may need, but this is an area I’m unfamiliar with. And, despite technological advances, I’m not entirely convinced witches should drive cars.

The craft store looms out the windshield, and I unbuckle my seat belt, tucking the list into my pocket alongside my wallet. I slide out of the car, and a warm breeze lifts the hair off the back of my neck as I stride across the baking asphalt parking lot and through the double doors.

A bell chimes overhead, echoing through the aisles as I grab a shopping basket. Fluorescent lights bounce off the white tile floor, and a man at the register gives me a noncommittal nod as I read the signs above the endcaps.

Floral, painting, woodwork, and—perfect. Sewing.

Needles and pin cushions line the aisle, and I stop in front of a section housing thread in every shade. I pull the list Lottie wrote out of my pocket and scan her looped handwriting, worrying my lip. She didn’t specify what color of thread she needed, just that it was ‘severely lacking.’

I shrug and grab a spool in every color, tossing them into the basket. Backtracking, I scan the wall of replacement needles for sewing machines, and, after consulting the list, grab a bulk pack—one in every size.