Chapter Text
Feyre Archeron drove the beat up old conversion van their father had given them through the mud with her sisters, following the line of trucks, campers, and cars through the woods. The three of them were squished into the bench seat of the front, their inventory crammed into the back.
“Prythian Renaissance Faire proudly sponsored by Hyberon Entertainment Industries, LLC,” Nesta scoffed from beside her. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“Well, we’re not there yet.” Feyre didn’t take her eyes off the road, not that there was much to see, but she could picture the scowl on her sister’s face and didn’t want to deal with it.
From the end, Elain leaned forward in her seat, the seatbelt pulling at her shoulder. “It’s awfully far in the woods.”
“They need a big enough space to host it. This is the biggest faire in the North Country,” Feyre said.
“Because there’s nothing else in the North Country,” Nesta crossed her arms. “It’s September, we’ll be here for two months; you do realize we’re going to freeze right?”
Feyre sighed. “We have a space heater.”
Elain sat back in her seat. “Maybe it won’t be so cold.”
“We’ve just driven almost two hours North.” Nesta shifted in her seat, her bony hips poking Feyre’s thigh.
They rode in silence, bouncing through the ruts, slowly following the line of vehicles until they were able to park the van and get out, stretching. The three women grabbed their purses, locked the van and walked across the field to the entrance.
The faire gate was little more than a large wall. They tried to make it look pretty with banners running along it of the nine courts, but it was just a large stone wall with doors down the length of it, leading through a dark tunnel with ticket booths on either side, before it opened up into the main welcome stage inside.
As venders, the sisters arrived a day before the faire opened, and all of the gates were raised to let them and their inventory in. Feyre dug out their badges from her purse and showed them to the tall woman with red hair at the gate with a clipboard. She hardly nodded their way, but didn’t stop them from entering.
Elain carried the map of the faire. “I don’t know how we’ll ever find our way around in here.”
“All we need is our stall, the bathrooms, and our tent. We’re not here to see the faire, we’re here to earn money for school,” Nesta said. As the oldest, she preferred to walk ahead – and walked with her chin lifted, shoulders back, and with the purposeful steps of someone who would walk right over you if you got in the way.
Feyre and Elain glanced at each other, sharing a look before leaning over the map as they walked. “The courts don’t really overlap much, and it looks like the venders are clustered near the bottom in what they call the mortal lands,” Elain said. She chewed on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful.
“The courts are supposed to be fairies, the actors all wear fake ears,” Feyre said.
Nesta’s noise of disgust could be heard even from how far ahead she was.
“Each one has a specialty, its part of the gimmick of the faire. The play the actors put on changes with audience participation.” Feyre and her sisters made their way through the court to the end where the vender area was. There was no way anyone could see it all in a day, and the faire sold week-long tickets at a discount to entice people to spend more time. It was why the main show had to change each day, so that repeat patrons didn’t get bored.
Their feet were covered in mud by the time they made it to their stall.
“108, here we are,” Elain said. “Do you think it’s big enough Feyre? Your canvas’ take up a lot of room.”
The stall they were assigned wasn’t very big, and likely wouldn’t fit even half of what she brought, let alone a shared space with all of Elain’s flowers. “We’ll make it work.” It was all they could afford.
###
It took the rest of the afternoon for the three girls to carry Elain’s flowers and supplies to the stall. By then they had missed lunch, and it was nearing dinner time. Feyre sighed, looking at her half of the stall that was still empty. Elain’s flowers were starting to crowd into the open space, because it was still open. Potting soil and garden tools cluttered the table they had to share.
“It will be dark soon, we should start setting up the tent,” Nesta said, setting down the box of mason jars she carried.
“We should get dinner, too. I’m starving.” Elain brushed a spill of soil off the table and walked around to meet her sisters.
Feyre took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I still need to grab my stuff.”
“We can do it in the morning, the faire opens at ten, we’ll have lots of time.” Elain pulled the map from her pocket and unfolded it. “What should we do for food?”
“I made sandwiches; we aren’t going to be buying anything here.”
“What? Why not?” Elain looked up from the map, her forehead creased in confusion. “We need to eat.”
“And it’s expensive; a bowl of soup is $7, a soda is $2. Anything we make here will be gone before we leave if we spend it all.” Feyre started walking away, toward the van and the bag with the tent in it.
Her sisters followed. “If we’re not eating here, what are we going to do?” Nesta asked.
“There’s a grocery store in town, I have enough in the cooler I packed for a couple days. We’ll buy groceries one morning before we open.” Feyre kept her pace up forcing them to follow her at almost a run. She had walked this path twice as many times as they had, and she was tired, sore and cranky that they hadn’t wanted to help her move any of her stuff. Elain needed help, she needed more time to arrange her flowers into a display.
Elain. Elain. Elain.
It didn’t matter that Feyre was the youngest, that she also had to arrange her paintings into a display, that they were both trying to sell things to save for college. It didn’t matter to Nesta at any rate – Nesta who didn’t have anything to sell and hadn’t really done anything to help, either, but who wouldn’t leave Elain anywhere alone.
Feyre rolled her eyes and pulled the keys from her pocket to unlock the van. Nesta pulled the small white cooler out from under a box of paints, and opened it up to grab two sandwiches from on top. She handed one to Elain and turned to leave without saying anything more.
Elain stayed, hesitating between following her older sister, and staying to help her younger sister. “Just go,” Feyre said. She tugged at the bag with the tent in it until she could drag it across the floor of the van.
“Feyre,” Elain looked toward where Nesta left. “I’ll help you in the morning, okay?” she said.
Feyre pulled the bag with their sleeping bags in it and handed it to her. “Take this too.”
Elain took it, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Elain nodded before walking slowly after Nesta, leaning to the side away from the bag she carried.
Feyre sighed and sat down on the floor of the van. Three sleeping bags were not heavy at all, but Elain acted like she was carrying a bag of potting soil.
Not that she had ever actually carried a whole bag of soil, or anything heavier than a watering can. Nesta wouldn’t allow it. There wasn’t anything wrong with Elain – she was willing to do her own carrying, but Nesta insisted she would break something if she tried. Feyre couldn’t understand why that meant she had to be the one to carry all the heavy stuff, because of course Nesta wasn’t going to do it either.
Pulling a sandwich from the cooler, Feyre leaned back and looked up at the stars. She watched the sky darken, and the stars brighten until she had finished her sandwich and folded up the baggy she had wrapped it in, stuffing it back in the cooler. She sat up and brushed the crumbs from her chest before grabbing the bag beside her and closing the van.
She walked slowly through the faire grounds watching the stars, making her way reluctantly to the small plot of land she would share for two months with Nesta and Elain. They were nowhere to be found when she got there, and it wasn’t surprising. Feyre let the bag fall from her shoulder and set to work putting the tent together.
It felt like she was alone in the faire, but there were voices of people talking, of others setting up tents, and a few small fires crackling in fire pits. Most of the venders in the mortal lands had tents, but in the distance before the tree line, the sideshow acts had campers. Feyre looked over wistfully before it got too dark to see them, wondering just how cold it would get at night.
###
September nights did indeed get pretty cold. Not as cold as what October would bring, but cold enough that Feyre slept in her wool socks and sweatshirt over the leggings and t-shirt she usually wore to bed. At the first sign of light outside of the tent, she slipped out of her sleeping bag and slid her boots on. It would take a lot of trips to bring in her canvas’ and it’d be easier to do before everyone started waking up.
Nesta and Elain didn’t stir as she left, and Feyre stood at the entrance, contemplating whether she should wake them as ask them to help. Deciding that it wouldn’t really do much good, she zipped the flap closed and headed back through the faire toward the van. They wouldn’t help with the canvas’, and that was most of what she had. The easel wasn’t heavy, but it was bulky, and then there were her paints, but that was just a box. Having their help might save her two trips, not much more.
At the van, Feyre grabbed an apple from the bag of food she brought and ate that as she started carting her paintings to the stall.
By her fourth trip she was sweating and pushed up the sleeves on her sweatshirt. The sky was starting to lighten and she could see cars arriving. The actors, most likely, since the cars were much nicer than anything she ever had a hope to afford.
That was what set apart this faire and was how the owners were able to have it open five days a week, instead of the usual two. The actors were paid well, and had been hired for their gift with improv, she’d heard.
Feyre ducked back into the van and pulled out the box with her paints in it. She’d brought enough that she could work on paintings while she waited for any sales to happen. There were some glass bottles inside, of colors she’d mixed in large quantities for a commission that had fallen through. The client had insisted on those exact shades to match the colors in a rug, and had watched her mix until it was just right. She’d also insisted on the glass bottles.
Then, once everything was perfect, the client changed her mind – they decided to go a different direction with the remodel and wouldn’t be keeping the rug, or the painting.
Feyre had kept the deposit, but she had used most if it to buy the paint, and the paint was all mixed. The bottles clinked together as she walked, and she kept her eye on the ground to step over the roots and ruts.
“Hey, watch it.”
Feyre slammed into a wall, the box and glass bottles of paint flying from her hands, landing on a rock and exploding in a shower of dusky pink, pale yellow, and burnt orange. She took a deep breath but all that came out was a half sob as the paint covered her from head to toe.
It also covered whoever it was she had walked into, but she didn’t have the stomach to look up.
“Watch where you’re going.” It was a man’s voice.
Feyre took a deep breath, pushing the paint from her face with her paint covered hands. She blew a harsh breath from her mouth before opening it, trying to clear the paint from her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t lift her eyes from the broken bottles of paint. There was so much, all wasted. With shaking hands, she reached out to start gathering up the tubes and brushes she could still use. The glass was gone, but everything else should have survived.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Feyre sighed and looked up.
The man she had run into had to be one of the actors. He wore khaki dress pants, and a blue button up shirt, rolled to the elbows, and loafers with no socks. He was the picture of the rich asshole that could get away with anything because his father had a lot of money. She tried not to smirk that his expensive clothes were covered in pink, yellow, and orange paint. His blond hair was spiked with too much gel, in a style that was about 15 years out of date. She gathered up the last of her paints and stood up with the box. “Sorry,” she said again.
“These shoes are Italian,” he said.
She shrugged, to her that only meant expensive. “I didn’t do it on purpose, I tripped.”
He leaned his head back, watching her. He opened his mouth to say something, but another man jogged up to them, long red hair tied back in a ponytail flying behind him. “Tam, what the hell happened to you?” he asked when he caught up.
Feyre turned to look at him. He had a long scar down his face, and she looked away quickly before he caught her staring. Focusing on the paint splashed over the ground at their feet, she wondered if it might make a nice background for a painting. The colors worked well with the darker mud shade.
“We had a little run-in,” the man said. Tam, she guessed.
The redhead laughed. “I can see that. What did you run into?”
Feyre looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? He ran into me.” She lifted the box she carried, still dripping with paint.
The blond sputtered, his hands in fists at his sides. “You ran into me.”
He looked rather silly with the paint splattered all over his face and chest, not at all intimidating like she expected he was trying for. “Again, I’m sorry, but…” she looked around, they were in the middle of the walkway leading from the parking area toward the entrance. It was a wide open space. “But, we were the only ones out here, and you had to have seen me, you could easily have taken two steps to the left and avoided the whole mess entirely.” She met his eyes and lifted her chin like Nesta did.
The blond man, Tam, narrowed his eyes at her.
The redhead put a hand on his elbow. “Come on, you should get cleaned up.” He nodded to Feyre before pulling the bigger man along with him, walking into the Faire.
Feyre stood holding her box, giving them enough time to get where they were going before she made her way into the faire and to her stall. Elain and Nesta still weren’t there when she arrived, so she took the time to make her way to the bathrooms for a shower before she went to wake them up. Her sweatshirt was covered in paint, but her leggings had fared pretty well – her sweatshirt had already been covered in paint so if she could wash most of it off so that it didn’t get stiff, it wouldn’t be ruined.