“You can leave it on the wharf. No cat starves here.”
The kitten was asleep and didn’t waken when Goodwife Celeste handed it over. It filled my two hands but weighed almost nothing, its ears huge, its pink nose tiny. I knew from the white left ear that this was the kitten who had climbed the rigging.
“Thank you, mistress.”
“You’re welcome. I hope to see you in the mansions someday soon.”
“Do you know where they are?”
She pointed upward. “Beyond the town. See, there is King Grenville’s castle.” Her finger moved rightward to the jutting towers. “The mansioners are east of his castle and”—her finger shifted to the left—“east of his menagerie.” Left again. “They are northeast of Count Jonty Um’s castle, which is farther south but less than a mile from town.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She smiled and threaded her way back to rejoin her husband.
Farewell, my only friend, my kind friend who cannot help me any longer.
My stomach growled despite the fish stench. The cog bumped against the pier, causing the kitten to waken and squirm in my hands.
“Be still,” I whispered. “I’ll set you free soon enough.”
As if it understood, it quieted and peered out at the world of solid land.
A seaman lowered the gangplank. I hung back and let the other passengers descend first. The girl in the odd apparel and her family were embraced by another family. Travelers were passed from hug to hug. Seamen rushed by me, joking to one another.
If anyone awaited me, this would be less an adventure. I remembered Albin’s wisdom: A mansioner is always alone. If a hundred people had come to meet me, I would still be separate.
The goodwife and her goodman set off together into an alley. I wondered why no one had been here to greet them.
The kitten sniffed my wrists. I followed the last passenger and stepped onto the pier. How unaccustomed my legs were to a floor that didn’t move. I wondered if seamen ever fell land-sick after weeks at sea.
I set the kitten down between an empty bucket and a mound of fishnet. “Be well. Live a happy cat life.” I touched its nose. “Bring me luck.”
It mewed briefly, then fell silent. I walked the length of the pier to the wharf. Where the two met, I stopped.
To my left a woman hawked muffins out of a handcart. My mouth watered, but I didn’t go to her. I was sure to find better if I waited.
In a doorway a man and a woman sat on stools mending nets. Nearby a fishing boat lay upended, its owner busy applying oakum and pitch.
Stalls lined the wharf and people ambled along, stopping to examine the wares or to buy.
The women were clad as the mother and daughter in the cog had been, in narrow kirtles with long sleeves and long hems and with colored aprons tied round their waists. As at home, the tunics of the men ended just below their knees, revealing a few inches of their breeches. Everyone—men, women, and children—wore hoods or caps that tied under their chins.
I tugged on my sleeves to make them seem longer. I am a mansioner in costume, I told myself, not outlandish, not a bumpkin.
Two dogs chased each other to the edge of the water and back again. On the pier, a plump black cat with a white tail ambled to my kitten and began to lick it all over. Other black-and-white cats sunned themselves here and there on the wharf. If this had been a town for yellow cats, my kitten might have been snubbed.
I heard applause.
Mansioners? Here?
Three young women and four in middle age stood in a loose row on the wharf, backs to me, blocking the reason for their clapping. When I reached them, I saw two black-and-white cats at the feet of a young man perhaps seven or eight years older than I.
Yellow hair flowed from his cap down his sturdy neck. His skin seemed to glow. Large gray eyes, fringed by thick lashes, and curving lips might have made his face feminine but for the strength of his jawline and chin. Powerful arms pulled tight the sleeves of his frayed tunic. His hands and bare feet were long and graceful. The bare feet, the hollows in his cheeks, and his worn tunic bespoke desperate poverty.
Twisted around the fourth finger of his right hand was a ring of twine, knotted in front where the jewel of a silver ring would be. Goodwife Celeste wore a twine bracelet. Was this fashion, or did twine-jewelry wearers belong to some confederacy?
The young man’s hands described a circle in the air, and the two cats rolled over. The women clapped as enthusiastically as if he’d stopped the sun. I clapped softly.
“Ooh, Master Thiel. Again, if you please.”
His name was Thiel, pronounced Tee-el.
He bowed, rewarded each cat with a tidbit, then obliged. The cats obliged, too. We clapped again. I touched the purse at my waist—still in place.