Chapter 3

Widow Moreau made Mrs. Hornby the chairwoman of handicrafts for the feast, and she’d scheduled Prissy’s time down to the minute. This left my friend out of sorts, for we both wanted to study for end-of-term examinations. Even though, in truth, they didn’t seem to matter much now, we were still both vying for the top school prize. Out of politeness, neither one of us ever mentioned it.

Another school day in the hot, stuffy classroom came to a close, and Priscilla and I had walked so far as the center of town when Matthew Dunwoody appeared, trotting as fast as his father’s old horse would oblige him.

“I got it all worked out,” he yelled, sliding off his poor horse. “Rode to Fallardston myself this morning, and fixed it all up proper.”

Folks came out of homes and shops to hear the news, like always, whenever the slightest commotion stirred in sleepy Maundley. Some days a breeze was enough.

“What did you fix up, Mr. Dunwoody?” Priscilla asked in a false shy tone that made me want to laugh out loud. She blinked so rapidly I thought perhaps she’d gotten a gnat in one eye.

“A caravan of gypsies camps in Fallardston at harvest,” he said. “I got ’em to come here for Saint Bronwyn’s. They’ll bring wares, music, dancing girls, fortune tellers, all sorts of things.”

“Dancing girls,” the miller said in a daze. His wife swatted his behind, and woke him up.

“You hadn’t ought to have taken it upon yourself to do that, Matt,” Mayor Snow said. “I don’t know as we want a whole troupe of gypsies mucking up our common and bringing their sicknesses here. We’ll have our throats cut in our sleep, likely as not.”

“Found some performers too,” Matthew said, ignoring the mayor. “Pair of brothers that put on live theatricals, playacting all sorts of stories.”

“The stage is an unsavory thing,” Father Pius said.

“Now, Father,” Widow Moreau said, appearing as if by magic, like she always did when things happened up town. “It’s entertainment for the king, not a meat dish. I dare say His Majesty is accustomed to theatricals and acrobatics and suchlike, living in Chalcedon as he does.”

Father Pius thrust out his lower lip and said nothing.

“And as for the gypsies, young Matt, you’ve done well,” she said. “I’ve needed a new skillet for an age. You and your dad need newer knives. Half the women in town need their scissors sharpened. It’ll be a boon having the caravan come.”

She nodded and put an end to the discussion. Matthew Dunwoody headed back to the butcher shop in triumph. I left Priscilla gazing after him in a humiliating state of reverence.

School had been a flurry of activity, with Sister Claire assigning recitations and poems to memorize to each form, from the young ones on up. I was tasked with memorizing Saint Menelos’s fabled discourse on biblical beasts, which was long, but far more lively and scientific than Saint Adelard’s treatises on sin, which had fallen to poor Priscilla.

Reaching home, I ambled through Grandfather’s orchard before going indoors. On a whim, I dropped my books in the tall grasses, all except for Saint Menelos’s, and climbed into my favorite tree. Here was as good a place as any to memorize my biblical beasts.

This particular tree’s branches formed a low cradle that I could rest in like a bed. I wondered if the branches could still support my weight, but they’d grown larger too, and I rested and read, snug and secure, rocked by the gentle motion of wind in the boughs.

The golden apples were heavy, warm and fat with juice. I helped myself to one, testing it. It was ripe. My bite broke off with a terrific crunch, showing flesh white as snow. I’d beaten Grandfather to this discovery, which never lost its glory, year by year. The apples were ripe!

I forgot my book as I ate that divine first apple. August light filtered through green leaves, beginning to redden. I thought of Grandfather, his little farm, and these trees where I’d spent so many happy hours. This slow, contented life wasn’t so bad, was it? I had Grandfather’s love, and Father’s books, and all the cider I could drink. Why would I want to leave?

Warm light played over my face. Hay-scented breezes cooled my skin. I closed my eyes.

I didn’t notice when my rest turned into sleep. A century might have passed. In my dreams the rocking, swaying motion of the tree branches became rolling, swaying waves on the sea. I swam, effortlessly as a fish, buoyed along by the swelling waves.

A shadow caught my eye. Far out, under the dark water, something was moving toward me, and not by accident. It had singled me out, and somehow it knew my name. Its great, fearsome head drew nearer. I was too terrified to escape. I flung out my hands to protect my head, and the creature opened its mouth, and bit.

I woke with a gasp. My eyes went straight to my hand, which still felt the stinging bite. Yet there was no bite on my hand.

But coiled around my wrist, like a long bracelet, was a snake.

I wanted to scream and fling it off me, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. The snake was small and thin, like a delicate, living twine, yellow scales intertwined in a perfect pattern with brown on its textured skin. How I saw all this so clearly, I don’t know. Part of me was still underwater, trapped and terrified. The snake lifted its tiny head and looked back at me, then worked its way around my wrist and up my arm.

It’s just a small snake, I told myself, like dozens you’ve dealt with before, in the fields or by the creek. But I’d never seen markings such as these, and how did I know if it was venomous? I couldn’t shake my muzzy-headed sense that somehow this little snake meant danger.

The snake worked its way up my arm and onto my bodice, until it lay coiled upon my breastbone. It raised up its head on its thin body and gazed at me, its slip of a tongue flickering. My arms and legs were still frozen, but I managed to lift my head and gaze back. It was so close now that my eyes couldn’t focus on it properly. There seemed to be two of them.

Its little head darted forward.

My breath caught in my throat.

The snake’s head brushed my mouth.

I felt the faintest prick of a razor-sharp fang on my lower lip.

It stroked its head and neck along my cheek, then slithered away, dropping out of sight among the branches below me.