the noon meal.
“Go see who’s there, Catherine,” Margaret Harris said, without moving an inch from the larder. She turned back to the cook. “Quite how we’ve managed to run through so much flour in a month I cannot imagine.” Lady Harris, like her husband, ran a tight ship.
Visitors to Kenegie were not infrequent, and came for all manner of reasons: beggars to request alms, though they were not encouraged, for the master donated generously to the parish and preferred to see the parson attend to the matter of charity; gamesmen offering a fine hare or a brace of pigeons; Market-Jew fishermen with their wares strapped in a withy basket on their backs seeking a groat for a mackerel, a penny for a pollock, or thruppence for one of the great eels that lurked beneath the offshore reefs.
Outside the scullery, tying the halter of a bone-thin mule to one of the ornamental bay trees, was what appeared to be an old woman, but if so, she was like no other old woman Cat had ever encountered. This bizarre little person wore a brightly colored head scarf tied at the nape of her neck, vast hoops of gold in her ears, a bodice of patchworked fabrics, and a voluminous pair of breeches caught close at the ankle by silk scarves and ropes of tinkling silver bells. But it was not even the impropriety of the breeches that gave Cat such cause for amazement, it was the color of her skin, which was a most remarkable brown, as dark as a conker. A couple of years back, some vagrants claiming to be Ægyptians had turned up in Penzance with a traveling show, but they had blacked their skin with a liquor of oak galls—as had become evident when the constable consigned them to the stocks and upturned the water butt over them. Two days later, they’d been lashed out of town, never to be seen again, which Cat had thought was a great shame: True gypsies or no, they would have provided some exotic entertainment, a glimpse of another, more glamorous world.
She opened the door a crack. “What do you want here?” she whispered. “You’d best be off quietly, for the folk here don’t look well upon your kind.”
The crone regarded her with an eye as bright as a blackbird’s. “A girl with her head afire and goodness in her heart—now, there be a fine sign for a murky sabbado.”
Cat stared at her. “Whatever are you talking about?”
The gypsy leaned against the door frame and peered into the scullery. “Yon settle looks fair for resting a bundle of old bones that have been jounced since dawn’s light.”
“I really can’t let you in,” Cat said nervously, “much as I’d like to. I’d get into trouble. There’s a bench in the garden, though. You could sit on that and I could perhaps bring you something to drink before you go on your way.”
The old woman continued to gaze at her unblinking. “There be trouble coming your way whether or no you let me in.”
Cat took a step backward. “What sort of trouble?”
“I’ll take some repast for that, my maid,” the Ægyptian said, sniffing the air like a little pug dog and setting her foot over the threshold.
“Ah, no, you’d best come with me,” Cat said quickly, before the situation got out of hand. She slipped out of the scullery door, leaving it on the latch, and drew the woman away across the garden, out of sight of the kitchen windows. The crone sat down on a bench beneath the apple tree and eased her feet out of her long leather shoes with a great sigh. “Treacherous as the serpent in Eden,” she complained, glaring at them and rubbing her bunions with a great claw of a hand. “I paid good silver for them at Exeter; by Plymouth I was in agonies.” She paused, then straightened up. “I’ll be needing new shoes in Penzance, I think.”
When Cat said nothing to this, the old woman rolled her eyes. “Be a good maid and give me a bit of silver and I’ll tell your fortune.”
Cat caught her breath. “Are you a moon woman? One as reads the path of life in a girl’s
“Go see who’s there, Catherine,” Margaret Harris said, without moving an inch from the larder. She turned back to the cook. “Quite how we’ve managed to run through so much flour in a month I cannot imagine.” Lady Harris, like her husband, ran a tight ship.
Visitors to Kenegie were not infrequent, and came for all manner of reasons: beggars to request alms, though they were not encouraged, for the master donated generously to the parish and preferred to see the parson attend to the matter of charity; gamesmen offering a fine hare or a brace of pigeons; Market-Jew fishermen with their wares strapped in a withy basket on their backs seeking a groat for a mackerel, a penny for a pollock, or thruppence for one of the great eels that lurked beneath the offshore reefs.
Outside the scullery, tying the halter of a bone-thin mule to one of the ornamental bay trees, was what appeared to be an old woman, but if so, she was like no other old woman Cat had ever encountered. This bizarre little person wore a brightly colored head scarf tied at the nape of her neck, vast hoops of gold in her ears, a bodice of patchworked fabrics, and a voluminous pair of breeches caught close at the ankle by silk scarves and ropes of tinkling silver bells. But it was not even the impropriety of the breeches that gave Cat such cause for amazement, it was the color of her skin, which was a most remarkable brown, as dark as a conker. A couple of years back, some vagrants claiming to be Ægyptians had turned up in Penzance with a traveling show, but they had blacked their skin with a liquor of oak galls—as had become evident when the constable consigned them to the stocks and upturned the water butt over them. Two days later, they’d been lashed out of town, never to be seen again, which Cat had thought was a great shame: True gypsies or no, they would have provided some exotic entertainment, a glimpse of another, more glamorous world.
She opened the door a crack. “What do you want here?” she whispered. “You’d best be off quietly, for the folk here don’t look well upon your kind.”
The crone regarded her with an eye as bright as a blackbird’s. “A girl with her head afire and goodness in her heart—now, there be a fine sign for a murky sabbado.”
Cat stared at her. “Whatever are you talking about?”
The gypsy leaned against the door frame and peered into the scullery. “Yon settle looks fair for resting a bundle of old bones that have been jounced since dawn’s light.”
“I really can’t let you in,” Cat said nervously, “much as I’d like to. I’d get into trouble. There’s a bench in the garden, though. You could sit on that and I could perhaps bring you something to drink before you go on your way.”
The old woman continued to gaze at her unblinking. “There be trouble coming your way whether or no you let me in.”
Cat took a step backward. “What sort of trouble?”
“I’ll take some repast for that, my maid,” the Ægyptian said, sniffing the air like a little pug dog and setting her foot over the threshold.
“Ah, no, you’d best come with me,” Cat said quickly, before the situation got out of hand. She slipped out of the scullery door, leaving it on the latch, and drew the woman away across the garden, out of sight of the kitchen windows. The crone sat down on a bench beneath the apple tree and eased her feet out of her long leather shoes with a great sigh. “Treacherous as the serpent in Eden,” she complained, glaring at them and rubbing her bunions with a great claw of a hand. “I paid good silver for them at Exeter; by Plymouth I was in agonies.” She paused, then straightened up. “I’ll be needing new shoes in Penzance, I think.”
When Cat said nothing to this, the old woman rolled her eyes. “Be a good maid and give me a bit of silver and I’ll tell your fortune.”
Cat caught her breath. “Are you a moon woman? One as reads the path of life in a girl’s
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