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“The knights can’t handle that much jousting. Twice a day, every weekend, for five months?”
“We’ll build up your stamina. And we will no longer be holding the events weekly. It drains too much money and resources. Instead, we’ll be holding the faire twice a month, only on Saturdays, throughout the summer. The knights can handle that. I have faith in you.”
“What about the historical accuracy?”
“What about it? We’ll still have it to a degree, of course. Otherwise, we’ll be adding in fantastical elements based on your own recommendations, and cosplayers will be encouraged to attend, as well.”
The tightness in her neck crept higher as the questions continued, and all the while, she struggled to keep Matthew’s continuous scoffs and shakes of his head out of the corner of her eye.
After today, things would be better. She just had to keep reminding herself of that. Things would get better. They had to.
“We have three weeks to make all of these changes and pull off a spectacular faire,” Winnie ended. “We’ll be postponing the event until then, allowing us more time to finish everything before the busy season picks up. It will be a lot of work in the beginning, but I promise, with all of us working together, you won’t regret the effort you put into this.” She smiled encouragingly, though most eyes remained on the packets in their hands. “Before I meet with each of you individually to go over more details, are there any other questions, comments, concerns?”
No one said a word aloud. Matthew whispered something to the knight beside him again, but his friend barely managed a smile this time.
Winnie sighed. It was now or never. “I’ve seen you whispering a lot back there, Matthew. I’d love to hear what you have to say, if you can be brave enough to share it.”
Matthew peered up at her, confidence emblazoned across his features. “I was just saying that none of this is going to work.”
Winnie drew steadying breaths, though what she really wanted to do was chuck her clicker at Matthew. Still, words would pack far more of a punch and reveal that she was still in control—of her mood, of her emotions, and of the faire.
“All right. Tell me, then, Matthew. Why won’t any of this work?”
He remained leaning back in his chair, a bored look on his features. “The festival isn’t about bumper cars and carousels and twenty-first century damsels. It’s about immersing people in history.”
Nearly every single person in the group nodded, but Winnie didn’t let it faze her. “I can see that,” she said, “but don’t you think a faire could—”
“Festival.”
She paused at his interruption. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not a faire.” For the first time since arriving in the room, he leaned forward in his seat, speaking very carefully. “It’s not a faire, a carnival, a Wild West event, or even a renaissance gathering. It’s a medieval festival.”
Winnie stared. The entire staff exchanged wide-eyed glances, a few individuals shifting uncomfortably as the tension grew palpable between her and Matthew.
“So this minor detail is so important to you that it trumps all the other things you could have brought up?” she challenged.
He raised his brow. “Perhaps if you were more focused on the minor details of what the event actually is, you wouldn’t be attempting to change what is at its heart.”
She could almost hear the other staff members calling out, “Oooh burn,” like her older brothers would have.
Unfortunately, the thought only made her defenses rise.
She pulled on her metaphorical boxing gloves and peered down at him. “What is at the heart of this festival, Matthew, is a dying, failing event.”
His eyes turned an icy blue.
“I know it’s difficult to hear,” she continued unapologetically, “but the magic is gone. It is not there. Not a single person looked like this”—she waved a hand up to the screen where the happy faces from the first slide bore down on the group—“at your festival two days ago. And I can almost guarantee that you haven’t seen so many looks in the last year. Tell me I’m wrong. Any one of you.”
She looked around her, but no one said a word—including Matthew.
“You see?” she said, knowing she was pouring lemon juice in an open wound now. “You must want the magic to return. You said yourself that it was your favorite thing about the event. Not the accuracy of the past, but the magic of the past. I think you know deep down that the only way to do this is to lose this authenticity obsession you have and add just a small amount of modern magic.”
Mrs. Birdwhistle delivered a barely discernible nod in response to Winnie’s words, and it was just enough to settle her nerves as Matthew continued to stare her down.
After a moment, he shrugged, leaned back in his chair, and pulled on his carefree look once again. “I’m glad you’re so confident, Miss Knox. You should know, though, before you make any of these changes, my father will hear about this.”
Don’t, Winnie. Don’t you do it.
