“Yes, my lady?”
“Is there any chicken? Umm, what kind of meat do you eat here? Venison? Pork? No.” She shook her head when Edith scrunched up her face. “Any kind of meat, really. I need protein. Eggs are good.”
“Yes, my lady. But the physician said–”
“I have an iron stomach and that was two days ago. I’ll be fine,” she assured with a smile. “Please, I’m starving. And also, don’t call me my lady. My name is Fable.”
The older woman tilted her head at her “Are you a servant?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then ‘my lady’ it is.”
“Is there nothing else to be then?” Fable asked her. “Either you’re a lady or a servant? There’s nothing in between?”
Edith looked her over, knowing what she wore under the blankets. “A prostitute, or a thief.”
Fable laughed. “A prostitute or a thief. That’s a terrible ‘in-between’. I should be insulted. I don’t give myself to anyone.”
When Edith waited for more, Fable remained quiet. Then, “I won’t steal from him.”
“See that you don’t, Miss.”
Fable looked away, hating who she was for the zillionth time in her life. Actually, she was lower than a servant, not higher. Even servants had roofs over their heads. Even servants were loved by someone.
Edith left her alone but returned a little later with two whole roasted chickens, a braised duck, three cooked fish, and six hard-boiled eggs.
“Where have you traveled from, Miss?” Edith asked her while she ate.
Fable remembered where she’d ‘touched down’ in the eighteenth century because she must have asked fifty people where she was. “Belstead.”
Edith drew back with her hand on her chest. “In Ipswich?”
Fable nodded and bit into a hard-boiled egg. She realized her torn tights and boots had been removed. She’d taken a look at her feet while Edith was getting her food. She wasn’t going to be walking anytime soon.
“You have a strange accent though,” Edith pressed on. “It doesn’t sound like anything from Ipswich or anywhere I’ve heard.”
Fable took a bite of a drumstick and then licked her fingers. “Oh really? I thought I sounded like everyone in Belstead.”
Edith and shrugged her shoulders. “Why did you walk here?”
“My father.”
“Your father? Did he mistreat you?” Edith asked. “Were you escaping him?”
Fable stopped eating and held the serviette Edith had given her to her dry eyes. She sniffed and nodded. She didn’t feel guilty for lying. Her father had run off before she was born. He deserved to be made out to be a monster.
“It’s difficult to talk about, Edith.”
“Of course. Oh, there, there,” the older woman comforted.
It was nice to be comforted. Her mother hadn’t been the comforting type. Fable didn’t know how to react to such physical contact as embracing and broke away first.
“I’m fine.”
“Yes,” Edith said softly. “Of course.” She smoothed out her apron and smiled at Fable. It seemed she no longer mistrusted thethief. “Well, the duke won’t allow your father to hurt you again.”
“Oh?” Fable looked up from a bowl of fowl. “What will he do? Is he very powerful?”
