the tuning pegs and tried again.
"Sweet," she said, as familiar pleasure spread through her at the sound. "Beautiful."
She tried a few more chords, then looked at the fingertips of her left hand. They were already red and throbbing slightly. Sara the pickpocket and burglar had beautiful, sensitive, delicate fingers; their skill obviously made them too valuable to exercise on any rough work.
"Tough," Sara said.
It was going to hurt like hell to get them callused up enough to play properly, but at least she would have music. She hugged the guitar, comforted to have found something to help get her through the next year.
She dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor of the tent and pulled the bag to her. Inside she found smaller bags holding replacement strings and picks carved from thin slices of tortoiseshell, flexible but strong. "All right!" she crowed happily.
She was practicing Segovia scales when Beth came in. She switched to "Stairway to Heaven" after the girl just stood there gaping for a while, round-eyed with surprise.
"What the 'ell is that?" Beth finally blurted out.
"Led Zeppelin. I've always thought Jimmy Page's acoustic stuff is really great but—"
"What are you doing?" The little girl plopped down in front of her. She gingerly touched the body of the guitar. "Where'd you get this thing?"
"It's stolen, I guess. Beautiful, isn't it?"
"I reckon. You know 'ow to play it?"
Sara flexed her aching fingers. "More or less. Maybe well enough to ..." she trailed off, then shrugged.
"All right, I'll say it out loud. I think, maybe, I've figured out how I can make a living for the next year."
Beth cocked her head. The look she gave Sara was a blend of annoyance and curiosity. "Your fingers are all red," she pointed out. "Can't pick locks if you 'urt your 'ands. Mother Cummings won't like that."
"Do I care? Anyway," she went on hastily, "I think I'm almost pretty sure that I can maybe, like, get a gig, you know, like a street musician or something. Or maybe audition for whatever passes for agents in this time. Maybe play Albert Hall or something. No, it hasn't been built yet. Maybe I could start here at the fair. Today. Maybe." She closed her eyes, then took a steadying breath and looked at the gaping child. "I really hate playing in public, but I'm going to do it."
"Fair's over today," Beth said. She rocked back on her heels and gave Sara a cunning look. "Could work," she said. "You gather in the crowd, I'll pick their pockets. Could make a bit that way." She nodded emphatically. "I like it."
Sara scowled at the girl. "Oh, no. No picking pockets. \'o stealing. Do you know what will happen to you if you get caught?"
Beth said indifferently, "Transported, maybe ‘anged."
Sara's first reaction was disbelief at the girl's casual attitude. She was a child, she reminded herself.
She didn't believe in her own mortality. And no one had ever taught her anything about morality. "Where are your parents, anyway?" she demanded. "Don't you have a home to go to?"
Beth looked as if she were about to cry. "You said you'd take care of me. You promised I could stay with you and you'd teach me." She sprang to her feet. "You ain't sending me back to Mother Cummings!
I ain't going!"
Sara hastily put aside the guitar and grabbed Beth by the shoulders. "Of course not!" The girl was as lost in this uncaring world as she was. They were both scared. Sara hugged her. "I'll take care of you, I promise." At least for the next year, she added to herself. She didn't dare try to think past the next St.
Bartholomew's Day.
Beth stepped back, her panic instantly turned off. "We want to eat, we better earn some money."
Sara couldn't argue with the girl's practical attitude. She did have to swallow hard on her own panic at facing the crowd. The time for stage fright was long past, and she knew it. She could try her hand at being a thief, or she could play in front of an audience.
"Get transported to Australia, or get rotten fruit thrown
"Sweet," she said, as familiar pleasure spread through her at the sound. "Beautiful."
She tried a few more chords, then looked at the fingertips of her left hand. They were already red and throbbing slightly. Sara the pickpocket and burglar had beautiful, sensitive, delicate fingers; their skill obviously made them too valuable to exercise on any rough work.
"Tough," Sara said.
It was going to hurt like hell to get them callused up enough to play properly, but at least she would have music. She hugged the guitar, comforted to have found something to help get her through the next year.
She dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor of the tent and pulled the bag to her. Inside she found smaller bags holding replacement strings and picks carved from thin slices of tortoiseshell, flexible but strong. "All right!" she crowed happily.
She was practicing Segovia scales when Beth came in. She switched to "Stairway to Heaven" after the girl just stood there gaping for a while, round-eyed with surprise.
"What the 'ell is that?" Beth finally blurted out.
"Led Zeppelin. I've always thought Jimmy Page's acoustic stuff is really great but—"
"What are you doing?" The little girl plopped down in front of her. She gingerly touched the body of the guitar. "Where'd you get this thing?"
"It's stolen, I guess. Beautiful, isn't it?"
"I reckon. You know 'ow to play it?"
Sara flexed her aching fingers. "More or less. Maybe well enough to ..." she trailed off, then shrugged.
"All right, I'll say it out loud. I think, maybe, I've figured out how I can make a living for the next year."
Beth cocked her head. The look she gave Sara was a blend of annoyance and curiosity. "Your fingers are all red," she pointed out. "Can't pick locks if you 'urt your 'ands. Mother Cummings won't like that."
"Do I care? Anyway," she went on hastily, "I think I'm almost pretty sure that I can maybe, like, get a gig, you know, like a street musician or something. Or maybe audition for whatever passes for agents in this time. Maybe play Albert Hall or something. No, it hasn't been built yet. Maybe I could start here at the fair. Today. Maybe." She closed her eyes, then took a steadying breath and looked at the gaping child. "I really hate playing in public, but I'm going to do it."
"Fair's over today," Beth said. She rocked back on her heels and gave Sara a cunning look. "Could work," she said. "You gather in the crowd, I'll pick their pockets. Could make a bit that way." She nodded emphatically. "I like it."
Sara scowled at the girl. "Oh, no. No picking pockets. \'o stealing. Do you know what will happen to you if you get caught?"
Beth said indifferently, "Transported, maybe ‘anged."
Sara's first reaction was disbelief at the girl's casual attitude. She was a child, she reminded herself.
She didn't believe in her own mortality. And no one had ever taught her anything about morality. "Where are your parents, anyway?" she demanded. "Don't you have a home to go to?"
Beth looked as if she were about to cry. "You said you'd take care of me. You promised I could stay with you and you'd teach me." She sprang to her feet. "You ain't sending me back to Mother Cummings!
I ain't going!"
Sara hastily put aside the guitar and grabbed Beth by the shoulders. "Of course not!" The girl was as lost in this uncaring world as she was. They were both scared. Sara hugged her. "I'll take care of you, I promise." At least for the next year, she added to herself. She didn't dare try to think past the next St.
Bartholomew's Day.
Beth stepped back, her panic instantly turned off. "We want to eat, we better earn some money."
Sara couldn't argue with the girl's practical attitude. She did have to swallow hard on her own panic at facing the crowd. The time for stage fright was long past, and she knew it. She could try her hand at being a thief, or she could play in front of an audience.
"Get transported to Australia, or get rotten fruit thrown
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