She knew him as Master Hutchins. It was not his real name. He would not tell her his real name. Only later did she learn it, when it was too late to save her father. Or herself.
Master Hutchins took the paper and studied it. She saw how his eyes moved over it, from one side to the other, starting at the top and working down to the last line of type. One day he did not hand the paper back to her. Instead, his eyes peered back over the top, looking down at her, his thick eyebrows wiggling.
Mia laughed and held out her hands for the paper.
“’Tis fine,” Master Hutchins called to her father. “We have money for ten tonight. Best to work fast and eat later.”
Then he returned his attention to Mia. “You have no brothers, do you?”
Mia hung her head.
“No, no. I did not say it to shame you, my dear. Indeed, it could be a blessing. Look how fine your hands are, how delicate and careful your every movement with them. You have made a fine puller.”
Mia tucked her hands behind her skirts.
“I can see that you like to work. But tell me, Mia, do you like to learn?”
Mia bit her lip and looked back toward her father. He pressed the paper. She should fetch it. That was her job as puller.
“You will outgrow that task, probably by winter’s end. You could be worth more than ten sons to him, if you are willing to learn.”
Mia ran away from him. She took the paper from the press, her hands trembling, and laid it with the others, listening to her father argue with Hutchins.
“You surprise me, William.”
“Are you quite mad? When she’s married,” her father continued, “what use will she have for letters and words?”
“Oh, she might marry a printer, a man like yourself.”
“I pray not. One cannot make a living in publishing.”
“She’s a bright girl but lonely. You cannot give her brothers or sisters.”
Mia had hung her head again then. Her mother had died giving birth to her.
“But you can give her truth.”
Her father lunged at the man, the man she would later learn was called by the name of William Tyndale. Her father knocked him to the floor. Mia hid her face in her hands. She heard punches and grunts. When she looked back up, her father stood over Master Hutchins, who had blood pouring from his nose. Mia tore across the room, ripping at her cloak, pressing it against Master Hutchins’ wounds.
“Father, no! He is my friend!”
“He’s going to get us all killed.”
“All we have is each other. You said that yourself!”
“You are not a parent, Mia. You can’t understand.”
“I want to know this truth he speaks of. I want to know.”
Father shook his head at Master Hutchins. “She is my only child.”
Master Hutchins made no reply. Father scowled at Mia. “Learn the letters if you want. But hear me: Letters become words, words become books, and you will become an unfit wife. It won’t matter that you know the truth. Is that what you want?”
Mia nodded her head yes with great vigor.
Her father had laughed without joy, extending a hand to Master Hutchins, lifting him off the floor.
Mia sighed as she remembered days that were no more, and men she had loved. Those loves were long dead now.
Carrying the silver piece of type with the letter M, she went back to the hole she had dug and dropped it in. Getting down on her knees as if to say a prayer over it, she leaned over the hole. “I am sorry.” She sat back on her heels and began pushing dirt into the hole, tamping it down, piling leaves and dead vines over the spot. With any luck, spring would cause something green to grow up over the spot.
Going back inside, Mia set her mind on the life she had now. She sat next to the box with great relief, waiting for strength to return. She smoothed the linens and christening cloth back into place inside the chest. Catching a hint of smoke, she pulled out the christening cloth and held it to her nose. It smelled like smoke and needed a good airing. She set it in her lap and fished in the chest for her sack of pearls.
“Burial cloth, indeed. Those days are gone, Father,” she said, though she knew she sat alone. “But you’ll see. I’ll sew my pearls onto this, and she will wear it at her wedding someday.”
The pearls were gone.
“How could that be?” Mia asked, dragging the chest closer in between her feet and searching again with trembling fingers. The pearls were small but not so small that they could go missing in this chest. They were held together on a simple string, tied together like a necklace with a silver clasp in the center. The clasp, a poor-quality one, had marks on it from the smith’s tools. Even so, that crude clasp proved strong enough to hold the little pearls secure. The pearls had been her mother’s, meant to be sewn onto Mia’s own bridal veil.
Hairs raised along Mia’s forearms. Tears started to build, making her throat burn as she swallowed and tried to stop them. No one even knew she had the pearls, save for Margarite and Bjorn. Why would anyone steal from her? She was neither rich nor proud.