“Even in such an uncomfortable position?”
“Even then.”
Someone—or something—jostled Jilly from behind. “Beg pardon,” muttered what appeared for all the world to be a walking shrub.
“Jack o’ the Green!” cried Jilly, “I shan’t give you a coin if you knock it out of my hand!” She laughed as she reached inside her hidden pocket to fetch a sixpence.
“Don’t mind him, mistress,” said a milkmaid, wearing a flower garland and dancing around the leafy framework that hid all of “Jack” except for his face. “He may already have had a pint or two. It’s hot in that there bower he wears. Just toss the coin in the sweep’s bowl. Thank ’ee mightily.”
The chimney sweep, who must have been similarly warm dancing in his sooty clothes, was equally unsure on his feet but held out the bowl firmly in one hand, tipping his hat with the other. A fiddler completed the ensemble.
Nearby, a group of bystanders parted and a long line of more milkmaids and sweeps caught up with the four leading the troupe. They made their way to the maypole, where they each took hold of a ribbon until every such band was seized, whereupon they continued their dance, weaving in and out, plaiting and unplaiting the ribbons as they circled ’round.
Then came the children, their parents coaxing and clapping, the little girls in shiny, patent leather shoes, the boys with broad buckles on the toes of theirs. In and out they wove, a little less confidently than the adults who had come before them, their shy smiles lifted to their proud mamas and papas.
“One day, that will be you,” whispered Penelope, nodding her head at a mother calling words of encouragement to aparticularly small child who stood and sucked its thumb and would not move into the circle with the others.
“Ah, you assume I shall have the offspring who will not do as asked,” teased Jillian. “Which, then, will be yours? Perhaps that boy who prances like a horse?”
Penelope shook her head. “I am content to be an aunt. It is too much bother to find a husband.”
The two women meandered through the fair, watching the jugglers and calling out with the crowd during a pantomime of Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Someone recited a scene from Shakespeare, but this did not hold their attention and they drifted along the tide of people to watch a pie-eating contest instead.
The day was now beginning to grow hot. Even their bonnets and fans and light dresses could not stop the film of sweat that began to form upon their brows.
“Let’s go in here,” suggested Jillian, ducking into the shade of a traveler’s tent. A sign outside announced:Madame Zahara. Fortunes told.The heavy fabric of the structure kept the direct sun from burning their skin, but a musty warmth was trapped inside the enclosure. The sounds outside grew muted, quiet enough that they could hear the crackling voice of the crone sitting at the small table.
“G’day, dearies.” She grinned, an action that revealed surprisingly healthy teeth amidst a sea of wrinkles. “Come to have your fortune read? Cross my palm with silver and I shall tell you what your future holds.”
Penelope sat herself down at once and placed a coin in the old woman’s hand—though “woman” was a stretch of the imagination. Her features, crisscrossed with lines and painted in a deep tan, were big-boned and looked to have been recently shaved. She was also unusually cheery for a woman in her profession, as they tended to carry an air of dark mystery aboutthem. At least, the ones who used to pass through her village had.
“Let’s have a little look, shall we?” said the woman, laying down her own rather large hand for Penelope to place hers in.
“Ooo! What have we here?” The palmist leaned in closer, her head shawl draping over the table. “A changeling! Brought by the fairies and raised by human folk. Have you ever had an itch between your shoulders where your wings should have been?”
Penelope’s gaze rose toward the palmist’s face, possibly seeking to know if she was having a laugh at her expense.
A movement at the entrance to the tent made all three of them look up to see another woman with shawls and bangles stop in her tracks and open her mouth to cry, “Kaven! You useless son of a dog! What have I told you about messing with my business? Get out! Get out right now before I put a curse on ’ee!”
The first palmist, chortling and ducking as the newcomer planted a heavy hand on “her” back, darted past the furious creature to escape the tent, but not before “her” head shawl was unceremoniously yanked off to reveal the short hair of a man.
“And don’t come back until you’ve earned your supper with some real work!” shouted Madame Zahara before turning to her wide-eyed customers. “’Usbands,” she muttered. “What use are they?”
She sat down slowly, her bangles jingling on her wrists as she flicked the fringes of her shawl from her face. “What’s it to be?” she asked, getting straight to business. “Crystal, cards, or palm? I don’t ’old with no tea leaves. Messy and wasteful, they are.”
“Oh,” said Penelope, somewhat rattled, “I’ve already had my reading.”
“Wha’? From Kaven? That weren’t no readin’. He’s just a foolish old goat who likes to have fun with my customers.” Hereyes darkened. “I’lltell you the truth. You’d best be sure you want to ’ear it.”
“Er, no thank you,” Penelope answered, standing up quite suddenly. “Perhaps Jillian would like to have a go.”
Madame Zahara eyed Jillian in a manner that was most unsettling. It was completely opposite to the mischief of Kaven. Her eyes bored into Jilly’s, seeking. “Yes,” she said slowly, “you have an open soul. You will be easy to read.”
As if in a trance, Jilly sat down and laid her hand upon the table like an offering.
“Silver first,” said the old woman.
For a moment, the trance was broken. Jilly fished inside her pocket for the necessary coin while her mind raced.Is this wise? Do I want the hear the truth?
