efficiency. Wiping her hands on a towel, she shouldered the tiny thing before handing Bertie a humble ceramic mug filled to the rim. “That will help with the chill.”
My line. I know I have a line here.
“A debt paid today is one that cannot be called in tomorrow, so I will give you something in return. I can weave your daughter’s story on this … er … evening’s loom.”
The woman hesitated. In Bertie’s imagination, a violin held a long, high note; as it descended the scale, the farmwife took a deep breath and joined the Mistress of Revels at the table.
Long fingers flicked the gold belt dangling around Bertie’s waist. “One of these coins would pay for the drink, and a meal as well. There’s bread and stew, a bit of new cheese. Ale, if you’re thirsty.”
Not the line Bertie was expecting, and so the farmwife’s words took a moment to sink in. “Oh. Yes, please.” Bertie pried one of the glimmering discs from her belt and held it out.
The woman bit it, seemed pleased, then spirited it away into her kirtled apron. “Wash up. There’s a pump in the corner.”
There began a dance of plates and pitchers, knives and forks. The farmwife set out a bowl of thick stew, half a loaf of bread still warm from the brick oven, a small wheel of soft cheese. There was butter molded into the shape of a clover, and a stein of dark, home-brewed beer. Trying to remember she had any manners at all, Bertie fell upon the food, dipped up rich broth with the bread, consumed vegetables the fairies wouldn’t have touched even had they been dying of starvation. Between bites, she grinned at the baby, now nestled firmly in the laundry basket atop a pile of clean-but-rumpled shirts, and tried to keep up with the farmwife’s small talk.
“So you’re a performer?” The woman held a heavy iron up to her cheek to test the heat, then ran it over a pillowcase thick with embroidery. “Where’s the rest of your troupe?”
“The next village over,” Bertie hazarded, not knowing for certain if that was indeed the case. “I need to get back on the road soon.”
“Not with the weather as it is.”
“Oh, the rain.” Bertie glanced at the window and saw it was slashed with silver streaks. “Have you a bit of oilcloth I could purchase? I shouldn’t like my book to get wet.”
The farmwife nodded and went to fetch it, then, with a noise that was equal parts laughter and “silly child,” she took up a napkin. “Hold still, you’ve butter from ear to ear.”
Eyes squinched obediently shut, Bertie could almost imagine she was Beatrix, that she’d grown up in this house, that this woman—
“For another coin, you can stay in our barn. There’s plenty of hay in the loft.” The farmwife returned Bertie’s napkin to her. “More stew?”
Bertie wanted to say yes, but her ribs were already creaking. “No, thank you. I’ve had all I can hold.” Spreading the oilcloth between salt cellar and pickle jars, she managed to wrap it about the journal and secure all the edges without needing to pay for a length of twine, too.
The woman nodded, gathering the plates. “Just as well. The rest of the family will be back soon, and I’ll have another supper to serve. It’s a burden, I tell you, having this many mouths to feed.”
Not quite the right line, but Bertie understood it as her cue. Journal in hand, she rose and looked at the tiny Beatrix, sleeping in the basket, thumb firmly lodged in her mouth. “Does she have stars in her eyes?”
“I beg your pardon?” The farmwife looked up from the dishes.
“Stars?” Bertie’s head swam with the combined effects of her fall, the long walk, the beer, but there was no gainsaying Destiny. “You know, like those in the heavens above?”
Pulling another loaf of bread from the brick oven, the farmwife paused to think over the question. “I suppose so, though I thought it was but a teething fever….”
“She will want a life greater than this, you realize.”
“You
My line. I know I have a line here.
“A debt paid today is one that cannot be called in tomorrow, so I will give you something in return. I can weave your daughter’s story on this … er … evening’s loom.”
The woman hesitated. In Bertie’s imagination, a violin held a long, high note; as it descended the scale, the farmwife took a deep breath and joined the Mistress of Revels at the table.
Long fingers flicked the gold belt dangling around Bertie’s waist. “One of these coins would pay for the drink, and a meal as well. There’s bread and stew, a bit of new cheese. Ale, if you’re thirsty.”
Not the line Bertie was expecting, and so the farmwife’s words took a moment to sink in. “Oh. Yes, please.” Bertie pried one of the glimmering discs from her belt and held it out.
The woman bit it, seemed pleased, then spirited it away into her kirtled apron. “Wash up. There’s a pump in the corner.”
There began a dance of plates and pitchers, knives and forks. The farmwife set out a bowl of thick stew, half a loaf of bread still warm from the brick oven, a small wheel of soft cheese. There was butter molded into the shape of a clover, and a stein of dark, home-brewed beer. Trying to remember she had any manners at all, Bertie fell upon the food, dipped up rich broth with the bread, consumed vegetables the fairies wouldn’t have touched even had they been dying of starvation. Between bites, she grinned at the baby, now nestled firmly in the laundry basket atop a pile of clean-but-rumpled shirts, and tried to keep up with the farmwife’s small talk.
“So you’re a performer?” The woman held a heavy iron up to her cheek to test the heat, then ran it over a pillowcase thick with embroidery. “Where’s the rest of your troupe?”
“The next village over,” Bertie hazarded, not knowing for certain if that was indeed the case. “I need to get back on the road soon.”
“Not with the weather as it is.”
“Oh, the rain.” Bertie glanced at the window and saw it was slashed with silver streaks. “Have you a bit of oilcloth I could purchase? I shouldn’t like my book to get wet.”
The farmwife nodded and went to fetch it, then, with a noise that was equal parts laughter and “silly child,” she took up a napkin. “Hold still, you’ve butter from ear to ear.”
Eyes squinched obediently shut, Bertie could almost imagine she was Beatrix, that she’d grown up in this house, that this woman—
“For another coin, you can stay in our barn. There’s plenty of hay in the loft.” The farmwife returned Bertie’s napkin to her. “More stew?”
Bertie wanted to say yes, but her ribs were already creaking. “No, thank you. I’ve had all I can hold.” Spreading the oilcloth between salt cellar and pickle jars, she managed to wrap it about the journal and secure all the edges without needing to pay for a length of twine, too.
The woman nodded, gathering the plates. “Just as well. The rest of the family will be back soon, and I’ll have another supper to serve. It’s a burden, I tell you, having this many mouths to feed.”
Not quite the right line, but Bertie understood it as her cue. Journal in hand, she rose and looked at the tiny Beatrix, sleeping in the basket, thumb firmly lodged in her mouth. “Does she have stars in her eyes?”
“I beg your pardon?” The farmwife looked up from the dishes.
“Stars?” Bertie’s head swam with the combined effects of her fall, the long walk, the beer, but there was no gainsaying Destiny. “You know, like those in the heavens above?”
Pulling another loaf of bread from the brick oven, the farmwife paused to think over the question. “I suppose so, though I thought it was but a teething fever….”
“She will want a life greater than this, you realize.”
“You
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