bone, I summon thee," she read aloud, casting something to the heart of the circle with a fling of her right hand. "Hearth and home, I summon thee --"
"What in God's name are you doing?" I cried. I took three long strides and arrived at Rosie's side. Grabbing her by the elbow, I yanked her to her feet. "Have you lost your senses? What is this -- is that mandrake? Did you take that from the dyeshed? If you got one speck of red on my spinning room floor --" "Your floor? I have wept and sweat and bled for this mill every bit as much as you have." She turned away. "Blood to bone, I summon thee --"
I glanced down at Father's book, to the passage she'd been reading from: To Summon Faerie Aid. "Oh, for mercy's sake! Why not stand by the pulpit at church and ask angels to intervene?"
"I've done that," she said.
I couldn't bear it. She looked so lost, and so young. It was easy to forget she was barely more than a girl, when I felt so old. I wrapped her in my arms and pressed her head to my shoulder. "I know you want to believe all those old stories. But this is nothing but superstition. Stirwaters needs help, real help. Not some fairy story you found in a book."
"Ha," she said, pulling away from me. "What we need is a miracle."
"I don't think this family is eligible for miracles. Rosie, I'm tired. Let's get this stuff cleaned up before someone comes in and sees it." I bent to collect the scattered remnants of her "spell" -- a bowl of salt, the black candle, a packet of herbs wrapped in muslin. "Where did this all come from, anyway? Did you raid the dyeshed? Or --" I looked sharply at her as I recognized a dried flower I knew hadn't come from Mr. Mordant's supplies. "Don't tell me you've been to see Biddy Tom."
She looked sullen. "So what if I have?"
"I can't believe you'd waste what little money you have on this rubbish. If Mam were alive --"
I never had a chance to finish, for at that moment Rosie looked past me and turned absolutely pale. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me standing. Someone was in the room with us, casually leaning against the hex sign.
"Beggin' yer pardon, misses." The figure stepped into the light, not some eldritch savior from Fairyland, but a perfectly ordinary, somewhat shabby man of about my father's age. A bit stoop-shouldered, in a coat much too large for him, he lifted brown fingers to his hat brim and nodded genially.
Rosie still clutched my arm. "Welcome to Stirwaters!" Her voice was pitched somewhere between gaiety and hysteria.
"Was there something we could help you with, sir?" I said.
He took another step toward us. He had a queer sort of shambling walk, as if troubled by rheumatism. "Well, I was thinking there might be something I could help you with," he said. "That is, you might have some work for someone like me."
I looked him over --just an itinerant tradesman in workaday clothes and a battered hat, with unfashionable red side-whiskers and small eyes, as if he squinted over his work. My father had sometimes worked with such people -- men with a knack for some odd trade or talent.
He'd put them up for a few days or weeks while they did their work, until the urge to travel struck them once again. Wanderers, my father called them, often with a hint of longing in his voice.
"I'm afraid not." I shook my head. "We're nearing the end of the season, and --"
"Give the man a chance," Rosie muttered from behind that bright smile.
"We can't pay the workers we have, you know that."
Rosie ignored me. "What kind of work do you do?" She was flushed with excitement, her hair tumbling down into her face, bonnet hung against her back.
"Oh, you'd say I'm a man of all trades, with a few special skills." He stepped closer still, a gold watch-chain glinting across his plaid waistcoat. "If you'll allow me to demonstrate, I do think I could be of some help to you here."
I smiled tightly. "You'd have to be able to make gold appear from thin air to be much help to us now, I'm
"What in God's name are you doing?" I cried. I took three long strides and arrived at Rosie's side. Grabbing her by the elbow, I yanked her to her feet. "Have you lost your senses? What is this -- is that mandrake? Did you take that from the dyeshed? If you got one speck of red on my spinning room floor --" "Your floor? I have wept and sweat and bled for this mill every bit as much as you have." She turned away. "Blood to bone, I summon thee --"
I glanced down at Father's book, to the passage she'd been reading from: To Summon Faerie Aid. "Oh, for mercy's sake! Why not stand by the pulpit at church and ask angels to intervene?"
"I've done that," she said.
I couldn't bear it. She looked so lost, and so young. It was easy to forget she was barely more than a girl, when I felt so old. I wrapped her in my arms and pressed her head to my shoulder. "I know you want to believe all those old stories. But this is nothing but superstition. Stirwaters needs help, real help. Not some fairy story you found in a book."
"Ha," she said, pulling away from me. "What we need is a miracle."
"I don't think this family is eligible for miracles. Rosie, I'm tired. Let's get this stuff cleaned up before someone comes in and sees it." I bent to collect the scattered remnants of her "spell" -- a bowl of salt, the black candle, a packet of herbs wrapped in muslin. "Where did this all come from, anyway? Did you raid the dyeshed? Or --" I looked sharply at her as I recognized a dried flower I knew hadn't come from Mr. Mordant's supplies. "Don't tell me you've been to see Biddy Tom."
She looked sullen. "So what if I have?"
"I can't believe you'd waste what little money you have on this rubbish. If Mam were alive --"
I never had a chance to finish, for at that moment Rosie looked past me and turned absolutely pale. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me standing. Someone was in the room with us, casually leaning against the hex sign.
"Beggin' yer pardon, misses." The figure stepped into the light, not some eldritch savior from Fairyland, but a perfectly ordinary, somewhat shabby man of about my father's age. A bit stoop-shouldered, in a coat much too large for him, he lifted brown fingers to his hat brim and nodded genially.
Rosie still clutched my arm. "Welcome to Stirwaters!" Her voice was pitched somewhere between gaiety and hysteria.
"Was there something we could help you with, sir?" I said.
He took another step toward us. He had a queer sort of shambling walk, as if troubled by rheumatism. "Well, I was thinking there might be something I could help you with," he said. "That is, you might have some work for someone like me."
I looked him over --just an itinerant tradesman in workaday clothes and a battered hat, with unfashionable red side-whiskers and small eyes, as if he squinted over his work. My father had sometimes worked with such people -- men with a knack for some odd trade or talent.
He'd put them up for a few days or weeks while they did their work, until the urge to travel struck them once again. Wanderers, my father called them, often with a hint of longing in his voice.
"I'm afraid not." I shook my head. "We're nearing the end of the season, and --"
"Give the man a chance," Rosie muttered from behind that bright smile.
"We can't pay the workers we have, you know that."
Rosie ignored me. "What kind of work do you do?" She was flushed with excitement, her hair tumbling down into her face, bonnet hung against her back.
"Oh, you'd say I'm a man of all trades, with a few special skills." He stepped closer still, a gold watch-chain glinting across his plaid waistcoat. "If you'll allow me to demonstrate, I do think I could be of some help to you here."
I smiled tightly. "You'd have to be able to make gold appear from thin air to be much help to us now, I'm
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