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“I know, but I didn’t⁠—”

“Did you remind him of that?” he’d interrupted.

“No, because this is what I wanted⁠—”

“Never mind. I’m sure something else will come up soon.”

His words had held a certain amount of intrigue that unsettled Winnie—Dad’s scheming never turned out to be a good thing—but she’d done her best to push it aside.

She had been done speaking after that, slightly relieved that she didn’t have the chance to tell them that this was the most satisfying job she’d ever had—or that she was head over heels for her coworker.

Ah, Matthew. The two of them had become nearly inseparable. Despite their best intentions, neither of them were true to their word, taking every opportunity they had to steal away on another horse ride, kissing beneath the oak tree that had swiftly become “their spot,” and returning to Foxwood at different times to avoid looking suspicious.

At this point, however, Winnie didn’t care if others found out about their budding romance. She was going to prove her abilities this time if it was the last thing she did—not because she wanted to but because she had to.

As the weeks flew by and her attachment to Matthew and his family grew, she began to feel the weight of what would occur if she didn’t succeed.

She couldn’t face the humiliation of begging for another chance from Mr. Wintour, which meant she’d have to go crawling back to New York, or worse, crawling back to Dad, who would take it upon himself to find her more work. She’d never hear the end of it from him or her family. She’d be the one who failed again. The one who embarrassed them again.

More than that, more than the stress of returning to her time as a New York consultant or facing her family, if Winnie failed, she also had to face her reality with Matthew sooner. What would happen if she was forced to leave early? Would they be able to stay together, her life in New York and his in Yorkshire?

She didn’t know what sort of future she had—if any—at Foxwood or with Matthew. But what she did know was that if she wanted the chance to see what could become of the two of them, she had to succeed this time. She had to prove to everyone that she could make it at Foxwood. She had to prove to Dad that she could make it.

Because as much as she liked to pretend otherwise, as much as she’d grown in her efforts to ride horses, to trust Matthew, and to become humble enough to take advice for the festival, she was still absolutely out-of-her-mind with fear at the thought of embarrassing Dad again.

Every day the festival inched closer, she grew more and more unsettled, despite her desperate need to remain focused. Because she was still a Knox, no matter what she liked to pretend. And as a Knox, she could no longer accept failure.

The first day of the event arrived sooner than anyone was prepared for. And yet, somehow, as Winnie wandered the grounds of the medieval festival, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

They’d done it. They’d actually done it.

Not only were the grounds filled with hundreds of guests, more than twenty booths, and dozens of opportunities for historical engagement, education, and enrichment, but the sun was shining after a week of rain, and smiles stretched across the guests’ faces in countless numbers.

Things weren’t perfect, of course. She still had hiccups to swallow and wrinkles to iron out, but overall, she couldn’t believe how well the festival was turning out.

Taking a minute to herself for the first time in what felt like weeks, Winnie walked around to admire the work alone, greeting guests and workers along the way in her jeans and wellies—that Char had permanently gifted to her.

She loved those horrible little boots, each step making her smile as she passed by the archery and the ax throwing, the maypole and the photo-op stalks.

Next, she observed the armorist, the female farrier, and the blacksmith who had come down from Scotland—thanks to a suggestion from Matthew’s friend, Graham—their tents and beyond filled with guests asking questions about their processes.

Beside them were more booths with wood carvers, professional painters, calligraphy artists, storytellers, puppet shows, glass blowers, and a dozen more tents overflowing with local goods for sale from people who lived in Grassington and other neighboring villages.

Further up were the food tents. The cabbage chowder had been replaced with huge turkey legs and bread bowls, and the smell of roasted meat, warm beef stew, bread, and all manner of sweets—from plum tarts to sugared almonds—tickled her nose and caused her stomach to rumble in protest that it wasn’t already being filled with such delectable foods.

It turned out that hiring a professional historical cook to help Mrs. Porter ended up being one of their saving graces, as the feedback for the food was already coming in as more than favorable.

Winnie paused behind a group gathered in the center of the booths, watching in delight as the juggler launched egg after egg into the air, handling them with ease.

The entertainment they’d found was stellar this time. Along with the juggler to occupy those waiting in lines, they’d also hired a flame breather, a few jesters, acrobatics, and even a fortuneteller, played by their very own Mrs. Birdwhistle—each entertainer and each actor dressed in bright costumes reminiscent of the medieval era.

One of Winnie’s favorite activities was the dragon being fought off by children playing princesses and knights, each dressed in gowns or armor as they fought off the terror—who just so happened to be played by Char’s now-boyfriend. The excitement on the kids’ faces and the joy each parent clearly exuded was enough to make Winnie’s day entirely.

After defeating the dragon, each of the children were rewarded with a complimentary plastic scepter, sword, or crown, making the day of both child and parent alike.

Fortunately, Winnie also had the foresight to hire a photographer—a freelancer from London, Liam Everhart—to capture those moments.

Winnie found him taking photos of the kids attacking the dragon, and she wandered up to him to see how things were going.