this?”
Sunday scowled.
“Any of my wares would be honored to decorate such lovely ladies.”
“Thank you; you’re very kind,” said Friday, “but I’m afraid we have a long list of things to do today. Perhaps another time. Good day to you.”
Sunday jabbed her sister lightly in the side as Friday escorted her away from the stall. “Friday, that was terribly rude.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for dawdling. There are too many things to consider! Undergarments, for example. Have you even thought about what you’re going to wear beneath your fancy silver dress?”
Sunday hadn’t. She was forced to concede and thank her lucky stars that she had a sister who thought of every detail. Then she was dragged to the next stall and the next, until she hated shopping so much, she never wanted to visit another fair for as long as she lived.
“Friday,” Sunday said finally, “I beg you. I have to eat something or I’m going to faint dead away right here in the dirt.” Her head was pounding from the heat of the bright afternoon, the whirlwind of stalls, and the effort of quelling murderous thoughts about her sister. Her nose caught the scent of roasted meat and baking sweets in the air and her stomach churned noisily. “Please.”
“Fine,” sighed her tireless sister. “Give me a few chits, and I’ll get some of the other things we need for the house. Find me when you’re finished. And no dawdling!” Sunday handed over the tokens and watched Friday’s patchwork skirts disappear determinedly around a corner. Oh yes. Friday definitely took after their mother.
Sunday’s stomach growled again; she was overwhelmed by all the market had to offer. It was much easier when you were so poor you didn’t have a choice as to how you filled your belly. Now she could have anything her heart desired! She wanted everything, and deciding between it all was making her ill.
She turned down another row, and the brilliant colors of a fruit seller’s wares captured her attention. There were baskets of juicy oranges, ripe bananas, and various other strange shapes she didn’t recognize, but they looked delicious all the same. The crown jewel, however, was the basket of perfect red apples. Sunday wondered at the bounty; it wasn’t yet the season for fruit of any kind. The seller must trade with ships from the south, she decided, or with Faerie. Growing up so close to the Wood, Sunday was fairly used to seeing such unusual things.
She stood over the basket of apples, mouth watering. She could almost taste the crisp sweet flesh between her starved lips. ‘Excuse me,” she called to the back of the stall.
A mass of tattered rags resolved into a haggard, hunchbacked, mostly toothless crone. “Coming, dearie,” she cackled. “Old bones, you see.”
Sunday waited impatiently as the old woman leaned on her crooked walking stick and slowly limped her way forward. The woman cocked her head and gazed up at Sunday with lavender eyes almost completely clouded over with age. “What can I get you, my pretty?” she asked, her gnarled hand already reaching for the topmost apple. She held it out to Sunday, its deep red surface so shiny that Sunday could see her face reflected in it. Hunger tied her stomach in knots so tightly, she could hardly speak. She pulled out a chit to pay for the apple.
There was a crash, and a cry of “I’ll have your ears, boy!” filled the air.
Sunday exhaled.
Trix.
“For your trouble, grandmother.” Sunday pushed the chit into the old woman’s hand and hurried off to rescue her stupid, rambunctious brother. She found him half buried in an upended piecart.
She grabbed Trix by an ear—the only part of his body not covered in juice and meat and pastry—and hauled him out of the wreckage. The pieman’s face was so red, he could have baked a few more pies right there on his forehead. His jaw clenched and little veins popped out at his temples.
Any other day, Sunday would have been
Sunday scowled.
“Any of my wares would be honored to decorate such lovely ladies.”
“Thank you; you’re very kind,” said Friday, “but I’m afraid we have a long list of things to do today. Perhaps another time. Good day to you.”
Sunday jabbed her sister lightly in the side as Friday escorted her away from the stall. “Friday, that was terribly rude.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for dawdling. There are too many things to consider! Undergarments, for example. Have you even thought about what you’re going to wear beneath your fancy silver dress?”
Sunday hadn’t. She was forced to concede and thank her lucky stars that she had a sister who thought of every detail. Then she was dragged to the next stall and the next, until she hated shopping so much, she never wanted to visit another fair for as long as she lived.
“Friday,” Sunday said finally, “I beg you. I have to eat something or I’m going to faint dead away right here in the dirt.” Her head was pounding from the heat of the bright afternoon, the whirlwind of stalls, and the effort of quelling murderous thoughts about her sister. Her nose caught the scent of roasted meat and baking sweets in the air and her stomach churned noisily. “Please.”
“Fine,” sighed her tireless sister. “Give me a few chits, and I’ll get some of the other things we need for the house. Find me when you’re finished. And no dawdling!” Sunday handed over the tokens and watched Friday’s patchwork skirts disappear determinedly around a corner. Oh yes. Friday definitely took after their mother.
Sunday’s stomach growled again; she was overwhelmed by all the market had to offer. It was much easier when you were so poor you didn’t have a choice as to how you filled your belly. Now she could have anything her heart desired! She wanted everything, and deciding between it all was making her ill.
She turned down another row, and the brilliant colors of a fruit seller’s wares captured her attention. There were baskets of juicy oranges, ripe bananas, and various other strange shapes she didn’t recognize, but they looked delicious all the same. The crown jewel, however, was the basket of perfect red apples. Sunday wondered at the bounty; it wasn’t yet the season for fruit of any kind. The seller must trade with ships from the south, she decided, or with Faerie. Growing up so close to the Wood, Sunday was fairly used to seeing such unusual things.
She stood over the basket of apples, mouth watering. She could almost taste the crisp sweet flesh between her starved lips. ‘Excuse me,” she called to the back of the stall.
A mass of tattered rags resolved into a haggard, hunchbacked, mostly toothless crone. “Coming, dearie,” she cackled. “Old bones, you see.”
Sunday waited impatiently as the old woman leaned on her crooked walking stick and slowly limped her way forward. The woman cocked her head and gazed up at Sunday with lavender eyes almost completely clouded over with age. “What can I get you, my pretty?” she asked, her gnarled hand already reaching for the topmost apple. She held it out to Sunday, its deep red surface so shiny that Sunday could see her face reflected in it. Hunger tied her stomach in knots so tightly, she could hardly speak. She pulled out a chit to pay for the apple.
There was a crash, and a cry of “I’ll have your ears, boy!” filled the air.
Sunday exhaled.
Trix.
“For your trouble, grandmother.” Sunday pushed the chit into the old woman’s hand and hurried off to rescue her stupid, rambunctious brother. She found him half buried in an upended piecart.
She grabbed Trix by an ear—the only part of his body not covered in juice and meat and pastry—and hauled him out of the wreckage. The pieman’s face was so red, he could have baked a few more pies right there on his forehead. His jaw clenched and little veins popped out at his temples.
Any other day, Sunday would have been
Similar Books
