gazed at him with simmering hostility, a new and daring reaction. Her sense of being trapped grew into a hard knot that made her stomach hurt as she went to change clothes.
The fair was set in a community park in the midst of the woods. Around the perimeter was a recreated medieval village that looked to Amy as if it had been built with cheap plywood and a loose regard for historical detail. The village housed artists and craftspeople, along with a number of food concessions controlled by the local organizers. The village’s “residents” were a troupe of seedy-looking actors, singers, puppeteers, and other entertainers.
Pop was a big hit as the rat-juggling man. And she was the rat-juggling man’s sidekick. As usual, she was nervous.
“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” Pop bawled in a wonderfully absurd Cockney accent. “I juggles the little varmints, I does. Watch ’ere, now, take a look-see.” He was dressed in a tunic of grubby rags cinched with a wide leather belt; his lanky legswere covered in black tights and his hair was shoved under a shapeless leather cap. He had wrapped his old tennis shoes in rags, so that he shuffled around like an old man. With aplomb he went into a comic routine that was heavily dependent on the acrobatics of six black bean bags adorned with whiskers and tails. The rats tended to go flying with madcap uncertainty into the audience that had gathered around; escaping, they were, Pop complained.
Amy’s job was to scurry after the wayward rats calling, “Hey, you little da-vils, come back ’ere!” After wrestling them into submission she tossed the rats to Pop again, for more acrobatics. At the end of the performance she pulled a leather bag from her belt and begged the audience for “a few coppers to help w’the upkeep of such fine, trained ani-muls.” She wore the outfit Maisie had put together with musty scraps—an off-the-shoulder blouse made from a faded muslin sheet, a ragged skirt that dragged the ground in back, and one of Pop’s old belts with the money bag tied to it. She had decided to go barefoot, and by midday her feet were filthy. She felt very much in character.
“You’re doing a good job today,” Pop told her when they finished with the crowd. Then he chucked her under the chin and nodded with satisfaction.
Ecstatic, Amy kissed him on the cheek. She relaxed a little as the two of them walked around the grounds looking for another good spot to perform. Pop milked the strolling crowd for laughter and money, barking corny jokes in his corny English accent and doing sleight of hand for charmed youngsters. Every time he introduced her as the rat-juggler’s daughter he clapped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed affectionately.
This was how he’d been before the back injury, the retirement, the drinking, the dope. She remembered him from those times in her early childhood with adoration. Today he loved the crowd, and when he loved the crowd, he loved her. She hurried along beside him, grinning.
At their next performance Amy dove into the audience with gusto, wailing at a rat and pouncing on it like a deranged monkey. The silliness was exhilarating; Pop’s good mood made her feel bold. People were guffawing atthe grimy rat-juggler, not at her. She tossed the black bean bag to Pop and he caught it with a flourish, then completed his juggling act by heaving all six rats into the air and catching them one by one in his cap.
“Thank you, luvs, thank you,” Amy said to the group of about two-dozen people who were applauding. She went through the crowd holding out her money bag to receive tips. “Now if you could just spare a few coppers to keep these here fine ani-muls in training—”
She looked up into Dr. de Savin’s dark, amused eyes and dropped her money bag. “Hello, mademoiselle ratcatcher,” he said.
Amy fell to her knees and began retrieving a few coins that had spilled. Humiliation burned in her veins as she saw the scene from a horrible new
The fair was set in a community park in the midst of the woods. Around the perimeter was a recreated medieval village that looked to Amy as if it had been built with cheap plywood and a loose regard for historical detail. The village housed artists and craftspeople, along with a number of food concessions controlled by the local organizers. The village’s “residents” were a troupe of seedy-looking actors, singers, puppeteers, and other entertainers.
Pop was a big hit as the rat-juggling man. And she was the rat-juggling man’s sidekick. As usual, she was nervous.
“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” Pop bawled in a wonderfully absurd Cockney accent. “I juggles the little varmints, I does. Watch ’ere, now, take a look-see.” He was dressed in a tunic of grubby rags cinched with a wide leather belt; his lanky legswere covered in black tights and his hair was shoved under a shapeless leather cap. He had wrapped his old tennis shoes in rags, so that he shuffled around like an old man. With aplomb he went into a comic routine that was heavily dependent on the acrobatics of six black bean bags adorned with whiskers and tails. The rats tended to go flying with madcap uncertainty into the audience that had gathered around; escaping, they were, Pop complained.
Amy’s job was to scurry after the wayward rats calling, “Hey, you little da-vils, come back ’ere!” After wrestling them into submission she tossed the rats to Pop again, for more acrobatics. At the end of the performance she pulled a leather bag from her belt and begged the audience for “a few coppers to help w’the upkeep of such fine, trained ani-muls.” She wore the outfit Maisie had put together with musty scraps—an off-the-shoulder blouse made from a faded muslin sheet, a ragged skirt that dragged the ground in back, and one of Pop’s old belts with the money bag tied to it. She had decided to go barefoot, and by midday her feet were filthy. She felt very much in character.
“You’re doing a good job today,” Pop told her when they finished with the crowd. Then he chucked her under the chin and nodded with satisfaction.
Ecstatic, Amy kissed him on the cheek. She relaxed a little as the two of them walked around the grounds looking for another good spot to perform. Pop milked the strolling crowd for laughter and money, barking corny jokes in his corny English accent and doing sleight of hand for charmed youngsters. Every time he introduced her as the rat-juggler’s daughter he clapped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed affectionately.
This was how he’d been before the back injury, the retirement, the drinking, the dope. She remembered him from those times in her early childhood with adoration. Today he loved the crowd, and when he loved the crowd, he loved her. She hurried along beside him, grinning.
At their next performance Amy dove into the audience with gusto, wailing at a rat and pouncing on it like a deranged monkey. The silliness was exhilarating; Pop’s good mood made her feel bold. People were guffawing atthe grimy rat-juggler, not at her. She tossed the black bean bag to Pop and he caught it with a flourish, then completed his juggling act by heaving all six rats into the air and catching them one by one in his cap.
“Thank you, luvs, thank you,” Amy said to the group of about two-dozen people who were applauding. She went through the crowd holding out her money bag to receive tips. “Now if you could just spare a few coppers to keep these here fine ani-muls in training—”
She looked up into Dr. de Savin’s dark, amused eyes and dropped her money bag. “Hello, mademoiselle ratcatcher,” he said.
Amy fell to her knees and began retrieving a few coins that had spilled. Humiliation burned in her veins as she saw the scene from a horrible new
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