Esme’s family farm—a half-mile off from the bus stop—was distinguished by an old, rusted water wheel latched to one side of the weathered barn. Because her father had died many years ago, they didn’t work their fields or hire out the labor. The land grew untilled except for hundreds of apple trees in the back orchard, which were pressed into cider during tour performances. They sold jugfuls for several tokens each. Her mother’s dressmaking business was supplementary income, one quite enriching because many women desired couture attire made by hand.
My long gown was hanging in the upstairs sewing studio, so beautiful I nearly regretted that I wouldn’t present myself to the judges at the CREIA after all. An intense shade of blue-lavender, the dress had a flowing silk skirt made from many th
