A Kind of Luck

The ribbons strung between the stalls pull and slacken with the breeze, colour shifting overhead as the line of people inches forward. Lucienne leans over the wooden counter, rolling a small ring between her fingers while the man beside the bottles resets them in a neat row, glass knocking softly against glass. The necklace sits low against her throat, the chain a little loose where she fastened it in a hurry, the pendant catching light each time she moves.

“Go on, then,” someone behind her says, impatient, and she flicks her wrist, sending the ring skimming forward. It lands with a dull tap, slipping cleanly over the narrow neck of a bottle that shouldn’t have been so easy to catch. The stall keeper pauses, hand still mid-reach, before forcing a grin that sits a touch too tight.

Lucienne lifts the pendant without thinking, thumb brushing its surface as if to steady it. It holds a faint warmth despite the open air, and when she lets it fall again, it settles differently than before, as though it has found its own place against her skin. Around her, the noise of the fair carries on — laughter, a bell ringing from somewhere further down the row — but the man behind the counter takes a moment longer than necessary to hand her the prize, eyes lingering not on her face, but on the piece she wears.