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chilly. “But just now, any day without snow be a good one,” she added.
     “Ha’ ye missed your way to our encampment, lass?”
    “Nay, for I’m to see the Joculator,” Jenny said. “I hope I’m on the right path.”
    “Aye, sure, ye are,” the man said. He was smaller than Cath, in every way. With a gesture, he added, “His tent be off the
     path near that tall beech tree yonder.”
    “I thank ye, sir,” Jenny said with a polite nod.
    “This be my man, Cuddy,” Cath said. “Ye’ll be Jenny, if I remember right.”
    “Aye,” Jenny said, wondering a little nervously if anyone in the company might yet remember, or recognize, her as Janet Easdale.
    She had not worried about that the night before, in darkness, when she’d had her hood up against the chill. But morning light
     was more revealing, although she wore no headdress, had plaited her hair so soft wings drooped from its center part and nearly
     hid her high, shaved forehead, and although Peg had drawn eyebrows on her.
    Nevertheless, it remained possible that by daylight the Joculator or someone else might recognize her. Cuddy did give her
     a searching look but then nodded and grinned when she smiled. She remembered hearing his name the night before and recognized
     him as one of the searchers she had seen after the attack on the knacker.
    Bidding them both a good day, she went on. But as the Joculator’s green tent came into view, its very isolation suggested
     that Cuddy’s quizzical look might simply have been a reaction to learning her destination.
    When Lord Dunwythie had agreed to Reid’s suggestion and Phaeline’s insistence that they hire minstrels for the betrothal feast,
     he had commented that, of all the folks who traveled to make their living—tradesmen, craftsmen, even beggars and such—only
     minstrels had developed a reputation for honesty. Nevertheless, Dunwythie had said, when one hired them, it was sensible to
     watch the men in their troupe, if only to preserve the dignity and virtue of one’s maidservants.
    He had told his people, therefore, to stay vigilant. But he had treated the minstrels with the respect he showed tradesmen
     he trusted, such as the knacker Parland Dow, who enjoyed first-head privileges at Annan House and at Dunwythie Hall, the much
     larger Dunwythie estate to the north. Dow came and went as he pleased, especially when it was time to turn Dunwythie cattle
     into Dun wythie beef.
    As Jenny neared the green tent, her uncle’s warning echoed in her mind, making her hope the Joculator would not insist that
     they talk alone inside. Her steps slowed, and she was contemplating the wisdom of shouting to him when the tent flap opened
     and he stepped outside, ducking considerably to do so.
    He wore a long red-and-black striped robe that made him look even taller than he had looked the night before. His soft, flattened
     black cap tilted rakishly over one eye, and the shoulder-length hair that had looked golden by the light of the hall cressets,
     and silver-gray in the darkness afterward, was pale flaxen by daylight.
    As he straightened, his gaze swept over her, piercing and shrewd. “So ye wish to stay with us, do ye?” he said.
    “I do not ask to stay long, sir, but I’d not refuse an invitation to bide with your company for a few days,” she said, relieved
     to detect no indication that he recognized her as the young woman whose betrothal he had helped celebrate.
    “Ye speak uncommon well for a maidservant, if so ye do be,” he said. “How does our Bryan come by a cousin wha’ speaks like
     a lady?”
    Feeling heat flood her cheeks, Jenny said, “If it offends ye, I’ll keep to me old ways, sir, but ye should ken that I ha’
     served the lady Mairi Dunwythie for many months past, and I do try to speak as she does.”
    “I’ve nae objection, lass. I’ve made my fortune by learning to speak as my betters do whenever it will serve me, in this country
     and in others. Bryan tells me ye claim to