Maybe Next Year

by Rachael Miller

Shakespeare’s smoking a cigarette in my parking spot, looking like he’s regretting every decision that’s lead him here. It’s a small comfort to know I’m not the only one wishing I were anyplace else, but I’m not feeling very charitable so I honk my horn and motion for him to move along. He flips me off but gets out of the way.

The dread I’ve been feeling on the drive over churns in my stomach as the stench of turkey grease wafts through my windows. I try to remind myself it’s just a day, that it’ll all be over soon, but I haven’t even gone in yet and it’s like she’s everywhere. This was her favorite place. I press my palms to my eyelids and try to blot it all out.

I’d like to go around the perimeter of the festival, but since I’m running late, I decide to cut straight through the middle. The smell of turkey is stronger now, mixed with mulled wine and ale and sugary teacakes. Someone’s playing the lute but I can’t see over the crowd that’s surrounding him, clapping along. I’m getting a few wayward glances and even though it’s probably just because I’m still in my jeans and stick out against all the draping tunics and rich velvet, I feel like everyone’s thinking: that’s her daughter.

I don’t mean to, but I stop at the wishing well. I lean over the stony edge, peering into its bottom. It’s shallow enough that the sunlight can just barely reach, casting glitter across the water’s surface and the coins that have sunk underneath. I picture something else at the bottom, caked in mud and rot. I’d do anything to get it back.

“Going for a swim?”

I straighten, blinking fast. I’d leaned further over than I’d meant to, my fingertips crawling along the inner wall. I turn to the voice and see a guy who’s made a fair enough effort at the renaissance garb: he’s draped in a dark cloak with a pretty well-crafted bow strapped to his back. I look back into the well. “I’m waiting for her to fly out.”

“Who?”

“My fairy.”

He tilts his head and I catch a glimpse of his face from underneath his hood. I’m used to getting stuck halfway in a memory, and similarly used to the look of discomfort people get when it happens. But he doesn’t look uncomfortable, just curious and patient.

“When I was a kid, my mom got me a hand-crafted fairy doll from one of the vendors here. She had this perfect little muslin dress with lilies on it and purple wings.” I can still picture the doll as if I’d just gotten her yesterday. “I was so sure she was real, that she could actually fly. So I threw her in the well.” I hear him laugh, just a little. “When she didn’t fly back out I cried and cried. My mom told me to be patient, that maybe next year she’d come back. So every year after that, we’d stop here and wait for her.”

He doesn’t look around, doesn’t ask me why this year, I’m alone. He says, “I assumed, as a regular, you’d be better dressed for the occasion.”

The corner of my mouth curves into a grin. “Well, I was going to be Robin Hood, but I thought it’d be awkward if we wore the same thing.”

“Robin Hood?” His face is aghast. “Damn, I was going for Aragorn.”

“Maybe you should go more generic. Hunter would probably suffice.” I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and grimace. I’m really late now, and I still have to change. “I gotta go,” I say, glancing toward the well. “It doesn’t look like she’s coming anyway.”

He follows my gaze. “Maybe next year.”

**

When I get to the arena, my dad’s nowhere to be seen, but his assistant is waiting for me. “What the hell are you wearing?” she hisses at me. “Did you even try with your hair?”

She shoves a peasant dress at me. It’s plain and smells faintly of stale sweat, probably fished out from the bottom of the festival’s old costume bin, which suits me just fine. I pull it on while the assistant pins a crown into my hair. She peers at me and makes a few adjustments, lips pursed with dissatisfaction, then sends me out.

In real life, it’s a rickety stadium for the community college football team, which wins approximately one game every couple of years, but today there’s a line of targets centered on the field, their heads replaced with bullseyes. The stands are almost full with people, a medley of courtiers and maidens exchanging good morrows and huzzahs. Above it all is a banner, welcoming everyone to the first event of the annual courting competition, sponsored by Ye Olde Auto Shoppe. My dad’s face is in the corner, painted on a cherub giving the crowd a thumbs-up. I try not to think about how much my mother would have loved it; she’d probably plot to steal the sign once the competition was over, hang it in our foyer to greet us every time we walked in the door. I can almost hear her raucous laughter in my head, the echo of it blooming warmth in my chest. But I know what’s coming next, the endless reminder that I don’t get to bask in her joy anymore, carving out the warmth and leaving me hollow. I turn away from the banner.

My dad is waiting for me in our box, down at the very edge of the field, draped in flowers and streamers. “Here’s our princess,” he says jovially, for the festival goers that surround us. When I get close, he whispers, “What about the dress I left out?”

I look at him steadily. “You know I can’t wear that.” I’m doing this for him even though every moment of it is like a knife twisting in my gut, because he’d practically begged me to, because we both know it would have made my mother so happy. But it’s like he wants me to evoke her ghost, and it makes me sick.

He presses a finger to his temple, his expression weary. “I just—” He’s interrupted, a microphone pressed into his hand. Even the renaissance festival has to make exceptions.

“Good morrow, good morrow!” His voice booms across the small stadium. “Welcome to another year of our beloved courtship competition! This year, the festival princess is played by none other than my beautiful daughter.” His hand sweeps to where I’m sitting by his side. I wrench a grin onto my face and hope it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “Whichever suitor she chooses for her hand will be the lucky winner of our cash prize, and it’s a big one this year, folks. Now, what do you say we meet the men vying for our princess’ heart?” The crowd cheers and claps, and the door leading to the field slides open.

The first suitor is wearing a Tudor-style flat cap, a boisterous yellow feather attached to its side. He has a lute in his hands and he plays a little ditty as he skips to the middle, blowing kisses to the stands. A bard is always a crowd-pleaser, even the bad ones.

I can hear the next suitor before he even emerges from the door, his chainmail suit rattling with every step. He’s got a pretty good replica of a knight’s helmet, though I can tell, even from a distance, that his sword is plastic and cheap.

When the third suitor takes the field, I try to hide my grimace. I recognize him — our dads are friendly, although technically they’re competitors, and we used to play together when we were kids. He’d pull my hair and pinch my arm and once he even pushed me in the pool at my own birthday party. As he approaches, he pulls sparklers from the sleeve of his long midnight-blue wizard’s robe. The crowd oohs and aahs and he bows deeply, a smug grin on his lips when he meets my eyes. I’m barely paying attention as the next suitor walks out in a three-pronged jester’s hat. He’s practically bouncing with each step, and just before he reaches the others, he trips exaggeratedly.

The last suitor emerges and I’m surprised that I recognize him, too. He’s pulled the hood of his cape down, but it’s unmistakably the hunter. He waves shyly at the crowd as he moves to the center, while the other hand thumbs the carvings in his bow. He looks at me and I wonder if he recognizes me back, but then his brows raise in pleasant surprise, his chin dipping just slightly in acknowledgement.

Their task is simple — shoot an arrow at the targets lined along the field; the closest to their bullseye is the victor. The wizard pushes the other suitors to get first pick at the bows, except for the hunter, who brought his own. The jester pretends he doesn’t know how to notch an arrow, which earns him a few laughs from the crowd, but I start to think it might not be a joke when he completely misses his target. The bard nicks the outer edge, while the knight brushes just against the inner circle. Before the wizard shoots, he brings his arrow to me.

“My lady,” he bows, “would you do the honor of granting me your favor?” When he straightens, his grin is arrogant, chest puffed as the crowd cheers him on.

I want to tell him only jousters ask for favor — no, I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his precious arrow — but I only offer a bland smile. “I’m afraid that would be unfair to the other fine suitors, sir. Prithee, take your shot.”

His smile twitches but he abides, notching his arrow and letting it loose. It’s the closest one yet, and the crowd erupts in applause.

The hunter is last to go. He doesn’t make any jokes or pander to the crowd; he slips his hood over his head and nimbly pulls back the string of his bow. For a second, I forget we’re at a festival, that these guys are all amateurs, because it looks so natural in his hands. He releases the arrow and his aim rings true, notching right in the center of the bullseye.

“Very impressive indeed!” My father claps. “Now, I invite our guests to partake in refreshments and take in the splendors of the festival before we reconvene at the ballroom for our next task. Huzzah!”

I don’t wait for the crowd to filter out of the stands before I turn to my dad, face twisted into a scowl. I’m still thinking about the wizard, how sure I am that my dad knew he was entering. “Is this some kind of joke?”

He looks sheepishly at the few people who have overheard, turning to watch us. “Not here,” he says under his breath, leading me by my elbow away from the stands, back to the room where his assistant had dressed me. “Listen, sweetheart,” he speaks in that gentle tone, the same one he’d first used when he told me Mom was sick and panic rises in my chest, “you’re not gonna like this, but I need you to choose him.”

“No,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Now, look, I know you don’t like the boy—”

“It’s not even about that!” Although, I guess it is, a little. “You lied to me. You’re lying to everyone; you’re trying to rig this whole thing!” I’m seething, so angry I’m practically vibrating. “Mom would never stand for that.”

My dad flinches, the words cutting just like I’d hoped they would. “I need this,” he says quietly. “We need this. I’m this close to a deal with his father, and a little good will would go a long way. Please, honey.” He looks so weary, like he’s aged a decade in six months, and I want to give him this if it means I can take some of that away. But I’ve already given him so much — a leave of absence from school to help him take care of Mom, an extended deferral after she died to keep everything in order, this competition to honor her memory and to pretend like we aren’t both drowning. There’s nothing left for me to give, and I hate him for asking for more. I want to say as much but I imagine how much it would break my mom’s heart to see us like this, so I stay silent.

“Thank you,” he says. “Put on your mother’s dress, would you?” I notice it’s hanging up on the doorframe. He must have had his assistant drive to our house to get it. He kisses my forehead. “We’re on in five.”

**

The ballroom is decadent, draped in luscious jewel-toned velvet and thousands of white rose petals. A small quartet plays in the corner, next to a long table topped with roast pig and pears flecked with gold. The finale was always my mom’s favorite part — she’d spend days working on our ballgowns, and in the evenings, we’d practice the dances in our living room. It’s full of magic there, she’d say to me, once I’d gotten older and the festival had lost its appeal, can’t you feel it?

I’m still in my peasant dress, seated upon a gilded chair. I have to endure a presentation of gifts before I’m meant to pick my chosen suitor.

Predictably, the bard plays a song on his lute which sounds suspiciously like a Beatles song. The jester juggles three balls and pretends to collapse on the floor when each of them lands on his head. The real humor comes from the knight, who presents me with a hand painted portrait that makes me look more like an ogre than royalty.

Next, the hunter approaches the dais. He’s traded his cloaked hood in for a cavalier hat, which he removes and holds to his chest when he greets me. He presents a doll in a muslin dress, lilies stitched upon it, purple wings on her back. My fingers tremble as I take it, throat suddenly raw. I trace along her delicate wings, the rough hem of her dress. There’s a smudge of mud on her foot, as if she’d just taken off from the bottom of a well, and I laugh in delight. I reach forward and squeeze his hand in gratitude.

I can’t even muster irritation when it’s the wizard’s turn, my fairy doll hugged to my chest. He pulls a fabric bouquet from his pointed hat, a jewelry box nestled in its flowers. It contains an emerald bracelet he definitely couldn’t have found from one of the vendors. “It’s nice,” I say blandly. The quartet begins to play again, and I stand from my makeshift throne. The wizard’s still annoyed, and he comes to my side as the courtiers begin to dance.

“Seriously?” he says. “Mine was way better than a dumb doll.”

“I said it was nice.” I move to step around him, but he blocks me.

“You and I both know I’m winning this thing,” he snaps, “so why don’t you be a good princess and play it up a little?”

Anger flares inside me. “Why does this even matter to you? It’s not like a merger will really make a difference for your dad’s business.”

“No,” he sneers. “It’ll make a difference for yours. You’d be declaring bankruptcy in three months if we weren’t stepping in to acquire you.”

Something lurches in my stomach, and I’m not looking at the wizard anymore. I’m looking at my dad across the room, the worried line of his brow, the purse of his lips that means he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He knows I know.

“Excuse me,” the hunter says. “May I cut in?”

I nod. I’m waiting for the betrayal to sink in, to claw up my throat and choke me, but it doesn’t come. The hunter takes my hand and leads me to the center of the room, until we’re surrounded by dancing courtiers.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I look up at him, feel the weight of the fairy that’s still clutched in my hand. “Yes,” I say, and I mean it. “Thank you for the gift. How did you find it? I thought they were one of a kind.”

The hunter spins me, a mysterious smile dancing on his lips. “Magic.”

And suddenly, I can feel it, just like my mother promised. It’s everywhere around the room, everywhere this festival touches. It’s in the bottom of the wishing well, in the notch of a bow, in Shakespeare smoking a cigarette and spun sugar and crushed velvet. It’s in my mother’s joy and my father’s attempts to make me remember.

“Would you excuse me?” But I pause before I go. “I can’t choose you,” I tell him. “Although, I’d like to. I hope you don’t desperately need the money.”

We hardly know each other, but it’s like I can tell he understands my reasons why. He brushes a hand against my back. “Maybe next year,” he says, and I laugh as I draw away, slipping amongst the festival goers.

In the dressing room behind the main ballroom, my dad’s waiting for me. He’s pacing, his hands wrung behind his back. His shoulders stiffen when he sees me, but he doesn’t try to bombard me with an excuse or an apology.

“I’m ready to make my choice,” I say. “Will you wait for me while I put on mom’s dress?” I duck behind the divider, pull on the last ballgown my mother ever made, the edges lined with golden embroidery. There’s the faintest scent of her perfume, and when I emerge there are tears in both of our eyes.

“You look beautiful,” my dad speaks softly.

I grip his hand and squeeze. “After this, can we steal that ridiculous banner?”

He smiles, and I’m overcome with the sense that in this moment we aren’t alone. “It’s already in my car.”