“Nor should you,” his wife snapped, snatching one of the sandwiches away. “What is she? Some sort of strongwoman?”
“Probably,” said Elias, glancing at Libba, “but mostly an actress, by trade.”
“Actress!” his stepfather exclaimed in delight. “Oh, those are always most amusing women. Very liberated, you know.”
Elias sighed. “Monica’s act is my favorite,” he said, pointing to her in the crowd. “She’s second-to-last today. She will invite the crowd to choose from a variety of textiles and odds and ends, things like wine corks and old marbles and flaps of paper and scrap, and then someone will turn the hourglass, and she will fashion a garment from them on the dress form. Sometimes shewill do two or three, depending on how much material is given to her.”
“A paper and marble garment?” his mother said, clearly intrigued. “How long does the hourglass run?”
“Not long,” said Elias. “I have seen her fashion a cravat out of newspapers that looked neater than the starchiest linen. It is a marvel.”
“Bah, cravats,” said his stepfather through his cucumbers. “I want to see the illusionist lad at work. He made one of the pigs temporarily disappear and I thought the Irish boy was going to flog him.”
“Oh, an illusionist?” his mother said, sounding suddenly quite girlish. “Which one? Elias, which one?”
“Rhys,” he said, pointing. “The Welsh one.”
“Oh, I saw him earlier,” she said, blinking. “He’s very pretty, isn’t he?”
“I beg your pardon!” her husband bumbled, stuffing the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth.
Elias could only stare at them.
Was this the first conversation they’d ever had? The firstrealconversation.
“You like illusions?” he asked his mother.
She opened her fan and gave it a nervous little flutter. “Oh, I do enjoy them,” she admitted, blushing a little. “I’ve always wanted to believe in magic.”
“And you,” he said to his stepfather. “You like… pigs?”
“I like all sorts of things,” the man replied with a sniff and a sudden brightening swell of his chest. “What do you like, boy? Hm? That wife of yours? Oh, ho ho.”
“Oh, yes, your wife,” said Elias’s mother, as though realizing she’d forgotten a task. “What is her act?”
“She and Malcolm perform together,” Elias said. “They each do a prepared sketch and then take requests from the crowd. People try to stump them.”
“And are they ever successful?” his mother asked, leaning closer.
“Not that I’ve seen,” Elias replied. “Though I remember there was a bit of a fuss one year when Hattie attempted to speak Shelta to Miss Boswell with her family members present. Apparently, outsiders are not supposed to do that.”
“‘Shelta’?” his stepfather repeated. “What’s that?”
“A cant,” said Elias. “A secret language. The Parvee speak it in the caravan.”
“Ooh,” said his mother, her fan fluttering again. “Secret Traveller language, Wallace! How scandalous.”
Elias opened his mouth to correct her and then shut it again.
Perhaps, just for today, it was not worth puncturing the atmosphere.
Clouds rolled across the sun as they passed into late afternoon, with people filling up the seats around the Selwyns as the interactive displays were taken down and Libba’s troupe got into order for the performance.
“Do you see that bird with the cropped hair?” Mr. Selwyn whispered, leaning forward to nudge Elias’s shoulder. “There by the harp?”
“Yes?” said Elias, looking at Libba’s troupe member as she flung a long, blonde wig onto her head.
“I met her,” said his stepfather, with the same self-satisfaction he might have used for a feat of great difficulty. “And she’s anun.”
