hand?”
“The spirits have bestowed that gift upon me,” the old woman said modestly. “Though it tends to work the better for the touch of silver.”
“I have no silver, but I could get you something to eat, if you’re hungry. There’s some bread fresh baked.”
The old woman snorted. “Can’t wear loaves on my poor ruined old feet, can I?” she demanded, unfairly.
Cat desperately wanted her fortune told. But she had given her last coin to her mother the day before and would not be paid till the coming Monday.
“The bread is good,” she urged. “And there’s furmity in the pot.”
At the mention of the furmity, the crone sat up straighter. She gave Cat a wide, lopsided grin, which showed off her strange collection of teeth. “Ah, furmity—now, that’s worth a fortune to me. But, mind, if you want good spirits to guide your future, maidie, best make sure there’s plenty of good spirits in it, eh?”
Cat ran back to the scullery, wondering how on earth she was going to make away with a bowl of furmity without being seen.
“Who was it?” Margaret Harris called sharply as Cat entered the kitchen.
“A poor, hungry old woman,” Cat said, not meeting her eye.
“Another of them vagabonds, looking to steal our victuals no doubt!” Cook clucked.
Cat drew herself up. “She’s a poor old crone, bent almost double and riding the world’s thinnest mule. I sat her down in the shade of the orchard.”
Margaret Harris strode over to the window and stared out at the unfortunate beast. “Lord save us, the wretched thing’s eating my lavender! Kate, go at once to the yard and tell young Will to take it away and give it some barley.” She turned back to Cat. “You can take the old woman one of yesterday’s loaves and draw her up some water from the well. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Cat reached for one of the flagons, but Lady Harris caught her hand. “Do have a thought, child: These wandering people carry all sorts of diseases with them from the cities. We want no pox or pestilence here. Surely she must have her own drinking vessel?”
Then, as if her maid might already be infected by her contact with the vagabond creature, Lady Harris left the kitchen at speed.
Cat caught up one of the twelve new round loaves that stood cooling on the rack where Cook and Nell had placed them earlier. Then, recklessly, she took down an old pewter bowl and dipped it swiftly into the bubbling furmity pot. The crock of rum was on the floor; hefting it, Cat poured a good dash into the bowl, and over her shoes into the bargain.
“God’s teeth!” Now she would have to wash them at the well or go round all day stinking of liquor, which certainly wouldn’t enhance her already tarnished reputation. Clutching bread and bowl to her bosom, she ran back to the orchard.
The gypsy’s fingers fixed on the furmity bowl like a falcon on amouse. For a second the two women stood there, connected only by the pewter dish, and Cat felt a strange low thrumming in her bones. Then the Ægyptian broke the connection sharply. Holding the bowl close, she scooped the porridge into her mouth, barely drawing breath as she wolfed it all down.
“Not enough rum,” she pronounced at last, wiping her mouth and handing the empty bowl back to Cat. The loaf she stowed away in some great hidden pocket of her pantaloons.
Cat pursed her mouth. She had expected, if not gratitude, then at least some acknowledgment of her trouble. She stuck her hand out, palm up, hoping that at least the spirits would be more gentle toward her, but the crone pushed her hand away. Cat had the sudden, distinct impression that she did not want to touch her. “You said you’d read my hand!” she said sharply. “’Twas for that I brought the furmity and the bread and risked the wrath of my mistress.”
“’Tis not the wrath of thy mistress thou needs fear, maidie,” the crone returned. She winked, horribly. “I’ll cast the stones for thee, but do not blame
“The spirits have bestowed that gift upon me,” the old woman said modestly. “Though it tends to work the better for the touch of silver.”
“I have no silver, but I could get you something to eat, if you’re hungry. There’s some bread fresh baked.”
The old woman snorted. “Can’t wear loaves on my poor ruined old feet, can I?” she demanded, unfairly.
Cat desperately wanted her fortune told. But she had given her last coin to her mother the day before and would not be paid till the coming Monday.
“The bread is good,” she urged. “And there’s furmity in the pot.”
At the mention of the furmity, the crone sat up straighter. She gave Cat a wide, lopsided grin, which showed off her strange collection of teeth. “Ah, furmity—now, that’s worth a fortune to me. But, mind, if you want good spirits to guide your future, maidie, best make sure there’s plenty of good spirits in it, eh?”
Cat ran back to the scullery, wondering how on earth she was going to make away with a bowl of furmity without being seen.
“Who was it?” Margaret Harris called sharply as Cat entered the kitchen.
“A poor, hungry old woman,” Cat said, not meeting her eye.
“Another of them vagabonds, looking to steal our victuals no doubt!” Cook clucked.
Cat drew herself up. “She’s a poor old crone, bent almost double and riding the world’s thinnest mule. I sat her down in the shade of the orchard.”
Margaret Harris strode over to the window and stared out at the unfortunate beast. “Lord save us, the wretched thing’s eating my lavender! Kate, go at once to the yard and tell young Will to take it away and give it some barley.” She turned back to Cat. “You can take the old woman one of yesterday’s loaves and draw her up some water from the well. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Cat reached for one of the flagons, but Lady Harris caught her hand. “Do have a thought, child: These wandering people carry all sorts of diseases with them from the cities. We want no pox or pestilence here. Surely she must have her own drinking vessel?”
Then, as if her maid might already be infected by her contact with the vagabond creature, Lady Harris left the kitchen at speed.
Cat caught up one of the twelve new round loaves that stood cooling on the rack where Cook and Nell had placed them earlier. Then, recklessly, she took down an old pewter bowl and dipped it swiftly into the bubbling furmity pot. The crock of rum was on the floor; hefting it, Cat poured a good dash into the bowl, and over her shoes into the bargain.
“God’s teeth!” Now she would have to wash them at the well or go round all day stinking of liquor, which certainly wouldn’t enhance her already tarnished reputation. Clutching bread and bowl to her bosom, she ran back to the orchard.
The gypsy’s fingers fixed on the furmity bowl like a falcon on amouse. For a second the two women stood there, connected only by the pewter dish, and Cat felt a strange low thrumming in her bones. Then the Ægyptian broke the connection sharply. Holding the bowl close, she scooped the porridge into her mouth, barely drawing breath as she wolfed it all down.
“Not enough rum,” she pronounced at last, wiping her mouth and handing the empty bowl back to Cat. The loaf she stowed away in some great hidden pocket of her pantaloons.
Cat pursed her mouth. She had expected, if not gratitude, then at least some acknowledgment of her trouble. She stuck her hand out, palm up, hoping that at least the spirits would be more gentle toward her, but the crone pushed her hand away. Cat had the sudden, distinct impression that she did not want to touch her. “You said you’d read my hand!” she said sharply. “’Twas for that I brought the furmity and the bread and risked the wrath of my mistress.”
“’Tis not the wrath of thy mistress thou needs fear, maidie,” the crone returned. She winked, horribly. “I’ll cast the stones for thee, but do not blame
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