I was ten years old when I first got to see the fair for myself. It was a cold day in March, and the snow had only just started to melt away, with patches of snowdrops peeking up under bushes and trees and winter aconite blooming brightly yellow huddled up against south-facing walls. I had been out playing with my sister since the early morning, throwing snowballs and building snowmen while we still could, before it all melted away. My sister had recently started spending more and more time with me, and I was absolutely delighted. She said it was because her friends had started talking about stupid things like kissing boys all the time, but I honestly didn’t care about the reason. Just as we finished our largest snowman yet, with my sister carefully putting the nose and eyes in place since she didn’t have to reach her arms up to do it, mother and father came walking down the path with big smiles on their faces. “Come on, girls! The Spring Fair’s in town!” My sister and I both gasped excitedly. We’d heard stories about the fair for all our lives, but we’d never seen it ourselves. We set off down the road, walking and in hand with our parents as they laughed and told stories about the fair. I was shivering a little, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the excitement. The fair was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The stripy tents and stalls stood out in a riot of colours, and the air was thick with the sound of music and laughter and the smell of spiced pies and mulled wine. My sister and I ran and played and laughed and ate until we were almost sick. I’d never had so much fun in my entire life. As the day went on, however, we noticed more and more people were gathering around the open area in the centre, where most of the music was coming from. Feeling curious, we pushed our way through the crowds to see what the commotion was about. There was a crude stage set up at the centre of the fair, seemingly made of stacked wooden crates and boxes covered with a sheet of thick cloth. It looked a bit strange and uneven, but the people of the fair moved across it without tripping or stumbling, like they knew every raise and drop in the improvised floor by heart. At the back of the stage stood a motley orchestra of men and women, all fielding old or crude instruments in various states of repair. But despite the strange variety of instruments and the way they stood huddled against the chill winds, they music they played was excellent, full of joy and cheer and warmth. I barely paid them any attention, however. I was much too busy staring at the woman dancing at the centre of the stage. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, with hair like fire and eyes as green as fresh-grown grass. Her pale skin was flush with life and cheer, and her smile shone like the sun on the snow. There were other dancers on stage as well, dancing with her and around her as the music called for it, but it was clear to everyone that this woman was at the centre of it all. Not just the centre of the dance, but the centre of the entire fair. As she danced, the chill winds seemed to grow gentler and softer, and I could feel the sun shining warmly on my back. I was so taken by the spectacle that I almost missed the completely enraptured look on my sister’s face, and even when I did see it, I thought nothing of it. It was an amazing sight, after all. As we went home that day I was laughing and chatting away, still giddy from the fun of the fair. My sister was different, though. She was quiet, thoughtful. The very next morning, she spent her entire savings to buy a flute. It was a simple thing, carved from bone, but its sound was sweet and pure, and from that day forth my sister practiced playing it whenever she had a moment to spare.