Here the homes belonged to wealthy burghers. The houses were taller, as befitted their owners’ elevated rank, with an extra story for servants.
The midafternoon bells chimed, muted by the rain. At the next corner I found a well. The water smelled sulfurous, but I drank anyway. The Two Castlers seemed healthy enough, and the water made my belly feel less empty. I rinsed my hands and face and neck, braided my damp hair, and tucked the braid into a knot at the back of my neck.
Then I looked down at myself. The hem of my kirtle was gray from the cog’s bilgewater, and gray stains splashed up my apron. My apparel was unfashionable and, of course, I lacked a cap. What would the mansioner master make of me?
I heard a strange call that rose and fell, high-pitched, low-pitched, and bubbling. The sound troubled me until I remembered the king’s menagerie.
The rain became heavier, and the air began to chill. I hurried, pressing my satchel against my chest. I could have put on my cloak, but then it would be wet, too.
If I was near the menagerie, I was on my way to the mansioners. Soon I reached the final row of houses, then behind them, kitchen gardens bordered by the town wall, much too high for me to climb. But here, at the top of Daycart Way, was the south gate, open and unguarded in peacetime.
I stepped through. Daycart Way became an oxcart road that soon forked. The right branch led to King Grenville’s castle, which was so close that I could see the shape of a head in the outer gatehouse window.
According to Goodwife Celeste’s description, the left-hand road would take me to the mansioners. I started up it. On either side of me, a meadow of late-blooming golden patty flowers glistened up at the wet sky.
Perhaps the mansioners were enjoying a snack and I might be invited to join in—join the troupe and partake of the meal.
The road was turning to mud. I avoided the wheel ruts and stepped from one higher, dryer patch to another. A wooden enclosure, taller than I was, lay ahead on my right, likely the menagerie, because I heard the eerie call again.
I reached the enclosure, which abutted the road. The gate stood open. I would have liked to glimpse a few of the creatures, but the view within was blocked by evergreen shrubbery trimmed in the rough shape of a bull.
After the menagerie, the road forked again. To my right it wound upward, likely leading to the ogre’s castle. Straight ahead, perhaps a quarter mile off, five theatrical mansions stood in a row, appearing from here as boxes painted in rain-dulled hues: at the head of the line, purple for ceremonial scenes, then green for romance, black for tragedy, yellow for comedy, red for battles. From the side of the purple mansion, the mansioners’ pennants hung limp in the rain. When the troupe traveled, the mansions would be hooked together and pulled by oxen, a stirring sight with the pennants in the lead.
Rain had probably ended rehearsals, but someone must be there, I thought, to keep watch. Better to arrive when the place was quiet, and the master or mistress would have time for me.
What would I do if I were turned away? I was already half starved. How would I keep from starving completely?
I wouldn’t be turned away. I would say how hard I’d labor, how far I’d traveled, how much I loved the mansioners’ tales, how I’d practiced them at home.
Might I start with a meal? Porridge would do.
Thunder growled in the distance. I felt something pass overhead and smelled rotten eggs.
Masteress Meenore landed between me and the mansions. Steam rose from ITs nostrils. Enh enh enh. “Here is the clever girl who will not reveal her name.”
My heart skipped beats. It was one thing to be near a dragon in the midst of a throng, another to be alone with IT. I ran around IT, hoping to see someone, hoping IT wouldn’t pursue.
Chapter Seven
So you wish to be a mansioner.” I heard the rustling of ITs wings as IT caught up with me. “Perhaps no one has informed you that the free apprenticeship has been abolished.”
“I know.”
Was IT going to the mansions, too? Might IT put in a good word for me? Or reveal me as the bumpkin victim of a thief?
IT spread a wing to shelter me from the rain, an un-expected kindness. I looked up and stopped hurrying to stare. IT halted, too.
The wing was a mosaic of flat triangles, each tinted a different hue, no color exactly the same. Lines of sinew held the triangles together, as lead holds the glass in a stained-glass window. The tinted skin, in every shade of pink, blue, yellow, and violet, was gossamer thin. I saw raindrops bead on the other side.
“My wings are my best feature.” ITs voice took on a sweeter, lighter tone than I’d heard before.
A lady dragon?
“You cannot see until I fly, but the wings are not identical. The pattern and arrangement of colors differ.”
“It’s beautiful, but . . .”
“But what?” ITs smoke tinged purple.
“Can’t a branch poke through? Wouldn’t an insect bite tear your skin?”