Every year, I tell myself I’m never baking for the fair again. It always ends in disaster. When I tried making a gingerbread house, the walls wouldn’t hold together and the roof caved in. I struggled on, until Mama paid me to give up on it. Another time, I made pies.
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Deirdre stood before me, framed by the mirror, her blue eyes glistening. Typical. She always seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“Nimha,” she called, pressing her hand against the glass.
I emerged through the mirror and slithered onto her hand. “Yes, my queen?”
She stared at the glass. “Who is fairest
Doyle glanced around and nudged the fishmonger.
“Do you have the… goods?”
The fishmonger nodded. “Aye.” He slipped Doyle a parcel wrapped crudely in brown paper. “And, there’s a fine whiting,” he bellowed, pointing to a large, white fish lying on the table.
Did the man have to be so obvious?
My cubicle door opens.
I hope it’s Nira, my favorite Facilitator. Instead two authorities burst in.
White suits. Masks. Blue gloves.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“You’re being removed,” the authority on my left growls. They grab my arms, squeezing
until it hurts, and haul me out.
“What? No!” I scream. “Nira!”
“Trilby!”
It’s Nira.
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