centimes each, three with butter, four with honey and butter, three with just salt and lemon
juice. Do you want one, miss?"
The girl stared hard at the woman, letting a silence pass before she spoke. "You work very
hard for a widowed lady."
The woman wiped her butter ladle on a clean cloth. "I've not met you before, how d'you know
I'm a widow?"
Karay closed her eyes and held up a finger. Her voice was slow and confidential, as if sharing
a secret. "I know many things, Madame. The eye of my mind sees the past as well as the
present and the future. That is my gift, given to me by the good Saint Veronique, whom I am
named after."
The woman crossed herself and kissed her thumbnail. "Saint Veronique! Tell me more!"
Karay's eyes opened. She smiled sadly and shook her head. "It tires me greatly to use my
skills. I have just come from Spain, where I was given five gold coins for seeing into the
fortunes of a noble lady of Burgos."
The woman's mouth set in a tight line as she mixed pancake batter. "You're a fortuneteller!
My money is too hard-earned to spend upon such fancies and lies!"
Karay looked proudly down her nose at the pancake seller. "I already have gold coins. What
do I need with your few centimes, Madame Gilbert?"
Batter slopped from the bowl as the woman stopped stirring. "How do you know my
husband's name?"
Karay replied offhandedly. "It was never the name of the children you did not have. Shall I
see into your future?"
The woman's face fell. "You're right, we never had children. If you don't want money for
telling my fortune, then why did you come here? What do you want from me, miss?"
The girl smiled, sniffing dreamily at the aroma from the stall. "My grandmother used to make
pancakes for me exactly like the ones you make—proper country style, eh?"
The pancake seller smiled fondly. "Ah, yes, proper country style . . . You could tell my
fortune and I'd give you one."
Karay turned her head away as if offended. "Only one?"
Shooing off a wasp and covering the honey pail, the woman spread her arms wide. "How
many then, tell me."
Karay played with her dark ringlets a moment. "Eight—no, better make it a dozen. I have a
long way to travel, and the food they serve at some inns is not to my taste."
The woman looked a bit shocked. "Twelve pancakes is a lot!"
Karay shrugged airily. "I could eat them easily, with enough honey and butter spread on them.
It is a small price to pay for knowing what life and fate will bring to you, Madame."
The woman wiped both hands on her apron. "I will pay!"
Karay came behind the planks that served as a counter. "Let me see the palm of your right
hand."
The woman proffered her outspread palm. Karay pored over it, whispering prayers for
guidance from Saint Veronique loudly enough for her customer to hear. Then she began.
"Ah yes, I see Gilbert, your husband, he was a good baker. Since he has gone you have
worked hard and long to set up your business. But fear not, you aren't alone. Who is this good
man who helps you?"
The woman looked up from her own palm. "You mean Monsieur Frane, the farmer?"
The girl nodded. "He is a good man, even though he has lost a partner, his wife. He comes to
help you often, yes?"
The woman smiled. "From dawn to dusk, if I ask him."
Karay smiled back at her. "He thinks a lot of you. So does his daughter."
The pancake seller agreed. "Jeanette is a good girl, almost like a daughter to me—she visits a
lot, too. Tell me more."
Karay made a few signs over the woman's palm. "Now for the future. Listen carefully to what
I tell you. Do not go home tonight—take a room at a local inn. Stay a few days longer after
the fair. Sit by the window each day and watch out for Monsieur Frane and Jeanette, they will
come. You must tell him that your work is tiring you, that you no longer want to continue with
it. Tell him you are thinking of selling your house and bakery and moving."
The woman looked mystified. "But why would I do that?"
The girl silenced the woman with a wave of her hand. "Do you want me to see further into
your future, Madame?"
The woman nodded, and Karay continued. "I see you happily married, a farmer's wife, with a
dear devoted daughter. The only baking you will bother with is their daily bread and cakes to
eat in the evening around your farmhouse fire. Trust me, Madame, your fate will be aided by
your own efforts. Saint Veronique sees you as a good person, I know this."
Suddenly the woman threw her arms about the girl and kissed her. "Are you sure twelve
pancakes will be enough, my dear?"
Back on the steps outside the manor house, two boys, a girl and a dog feasted on hot pancakes
spread thick with country butter and comb honey. Ben licked his fingers, gazing at Karay in
awe. "Tell us how you managed to do it. Widow, farmer, daughter, husband's name, and who,
pray, is Saint Veronique?"
Karay's explanation made it all sound simple. "Veron is the name of this place, so I thought
Veronique made it sound nice and local. I don't know who Saint Veronique is, but she
certainly helped us. The cart was a good clue. It had been painted over but I could still see the
words, the name in white, beneath the last coat: 'S. Gilbert. Baker.' He was nowhere to be
seen, the woman was working alone and she'd had the name on the cart painted over. So I
guessed she was a widow, without children, too. That woman's middle-aged; if she had
children, they'd probably be about our age. If that was so, they'd be helping their mother to
run the business. She leaves her house alone to travel here: someone must watch it for her—
the farmer Frane. A single woman could not handle it all, so he helps her. If his wife were
alive, she would not hear of such a thing. He would not be allowed to spend most of his day
at a widow's house and neglect his own. The woman was wearing a bracelet, a cheap pretty
thing, not the sort she would spend money on. I guessed that a young girl had bought it for
her. I was right. So, the farmer has a young daughter. They both like the pancake lady. Two
people, a widow and a widower, living close to each other. The girl Jeanette likes the widow;
to the widow, Jeanette is the daughter she never had. As for the rest, I was only telling that
woman what the future could hold if she played her cards right. What's wrong with her
becoming a farmer's wife and having a daughter? That's what she wants, isn't it? I was only
telling her the best way to do it. Monsieur Frane and Jeanette would be very sad if she sold up
and moved away. It'll happen, and they'll be happy together. Mark my words!"
Ben shook his head admiringly. "Don't you ever guess wrongly?"
The girl licked honey from her fingers. "Sometimes, but I can always manage to talk my way
out of mistakes. The whole thing is just luck, guesswork, a bit of shrewd watching, and telling
the customer things they like to hear. Right, let's set up stall here on these steps. Dominic, get
your sketching stuff out. Ben, you and Ned sit here by me, try to look poor but honest. I'll
start singing to attract the customers. Come on, now, we can save some of the pancakes for
later. Dominic, do another sketch of Ned."
The dog sat by Karay's side and winke
d at Ben. "You look poor, I'll look honest!"
Karay folded her shawl in two and spread it out at her feet to catch any coins that were
thrown. Dominic took up a piece of slate and his chalks. Ben sat on the other side of the girl,
listening as she sang sweetly.
"Oh kind sir and madam, you good children too,
Pray stop here awhile, and I'll sing just for you
Of mysterious places, across the wide sea,
Of distant Cathay and of old Araby,
Where caravans trail, like bright streamers of silk
To far misted mountains, with peaks white as milk,
And ships tall as temples, spread sails wide and bold,
All laden with spices, fine rubies and gold,
Fine harbours where garlanded flowers deck piers,
In the lands of great mandarins, lords and emirs,
Where beautiful maidens, with priests old and wise,
Sing songs or chant prayers 'neath forgotten blue skies.
Have your eyes not beheld them, then hark to my song,
And your heart will be there, in sweet dreams before long."
Gradually a few people gathered. One of them was an old fellow pushing a cart on which he
had a churn of buttermilk, a ladle and some earthenware bowls. When Karay finished her
song, he applauded loudly, calling out, "What a fine voice! Sing some more, young maid!"
The girl held out her hand to him. "Let me get my breath, sir. Come on up here and get your
likeness sketched by a real artist. We won't charge you much!"
The old fellow chuckled, shaking his head. "No thank ye, miss, I haven't got money to spend
on pictures. Besides, who'd want to sketch a battered old relic like me, eh?"
Ben coaxed the old man up and sat him on the top step, facing Dominic, and reassured the
reluctant sitter. "We're not talking money, sir. A bowl apiece of your buttermilk to quench our
thirst would be enough. My friend is a good artist, you'll like his picture, I'm sure. Don't be
shy. Here, I'll let my dog sit with you, he's a good companion."
Some of the watchers called out encouragement to the old fellow, and he finally agreed to be
sketched. "Go on then, it'll give my wife something to throw mud at when she's angry with
me!"
Dominic captured the spirit of the old buttermilk vendor amazingly. More folk had gathered to
watch, and they viewed the likeness with astonishment.
"Oh it's wonderful, what a nice picture!"
'Aye, very lifelike. He's even drawn that black dog, with its paw on his knee, see!'
"Doesn't the old man's face look kind and jolly!"
Ned watched them admiring the picture as he contacted Ben. "A true artist, eh? He's made me
look even nobler on that sketch, and see the old man's eyes. Every crinkle and crease is
perfect. You can see by looking at them that he's a cheery old codger with a good nature.
Right, who's next to have their picture sketched—with the noble Ned, of course. I'm getting
used to being famous!"
Ben tugged his dog's tail. "Stop boasting and drink your buttermilk, the man's waiting on his
bowls. Though he'll have to wash that one before he serves buttermilk in it again."
The black Labrador sniffed. "I should think so too. Peasants using the personal bowl of Ned
the Noble!"
Men and women began clamouring to have their pictures sketched next, even holding out
coins in their hands. Karay nudged Ben. "Haha, we're in business now!"
Dominic looked around before choosing his next subject. He guided a young woman carrying
a baby boy up to the step. She was obviously poor—her clothing was worn and frayed— but
her baby looked clean and healthy.
The woman tried to avoid Dominic, her cheeks red with embarrassment as she pleaded with
him. "Please, sir, I have barely enough money to feed my baby. I cannot afford your cost!"
The Facemaker of Sabada spoke gently to her. "There will be no cost, lady. For the privilege
of sketching you both, I cannot pay you. But I will give you two pancakes, one for you and
one for the babe. Hold him on your lap now, sit still and face me please."
Slumping down on the steps beside Ben, Karay heaved a sigh of resignation. "Two customers,
no, three, if you count the baby, and what have we earned so far? A bowl of buttermilk
apiece! Why don't we go and seek out some beggars, perhaps this facemaker'd like to sketch
them free! Maybe we could give them the clothes off our backs for allowing us to do them the
favour. Fools, that's what we are!"
Ben was not pleased with the girl's callous attitude. "Oh, stop grizzling, there's nothing wrong
in helping people a little. There are other things in this life besides money. Where would you
be if I hadn't helped you when you were chained to a cartwheel?"
Karay was about to make a sharp retort when they were interrupted by a richly clad lady,
mounted sidesaddle on a chestnut mare. Her voice was loud and imperious. "Tell that boy he
can sketch me next!"
Ned growled menacingly as she spurred the horse forward. The chestnut reared, but the lady
brought it forcefully under control. She wagged her quirt at Ben. "Tie that dog up, or I'll have
it destroyed!"
The boy took hold of the Labrador's collar. "I'm sorry, marm, Ned thought your horse was
going to trample us."
He ignored Ned's indignant thoughts. "Pompous baggage. Both she and her horse could do
with a lesson in manners!"
The lady was pointing at Dominic with her leather quirt. "Finish that picture quickly, I don't
have all day to sit here waiting whilst you mess about with peasants!"
The facemaker continued sketching, though his eyes were hot and angry as he flicked them up
at the mounted lady. "Then be on your way, marm, because I don't intend making a likeness
of you!"
The young woman with the baby started to rise, but Dominic beckoned her to stay put. "Sit
still, I'm almost done."
The onlookers had to scatter as the lady wheeled her horse about and rode off, glaring hatred
at Dominic.
Ned broke free of Ben's hold and chased after the horse, barking furiously, causing the animal
to break into a gallop. The lady was forced to hold on to her ornate hat as she bounced up and
down awkwardly. Stall holders laughed and jeered at her ungracious exit, some even cheering
Ned as he made his way back to Ben's side.
Dominic held up the slate containing the picture of the young woman and her baby, amid
gasps of admiration from everyone around. There was beauty and honesty in the woman's
face, and love for her child. Happy innocence and trust shone from the babe's eyes—it was a
perfectly beautiful likeness. He passed it over to the blushing mother, together with the food
he had promised her. She curtsied deeply, stammering her thanks.
"My husband will be pleased to see this hanging over our fireplace. Thank you, thank you
very much, sir!"
Dominic bowed and smiled at her. "Tell him that I said he's a lucky man to have such a pretty
wife and baby."
Shortly after the mother and child's departure, Dominic had just started to portray a fat, jolly
housewife when a commotion arose between the stalls. He looked up from his work. "What's
all the noise about?"
Karay climbed one of the gateposts of the big manor house. "I think we're about to find out.
Here comes trouble! It's the guards and that toffee-nosed lady you turned
away."
Dominic began gathering his materials. Ben stayed seated. "No use running, mate, let's stick
together and see what they've got to say. We haven't harmed anybody or stolen anything." He
looked pointedly at Karay. "Have we?"
Climbing down from the gatepost, she joined him. "What are you lookin' at me like that for? I
haven't lifted anything. You're right, we'll stick together!"
Ned looked imploringly at Ben. "I wish you'd said we should run for it. I'm guilty of
disturbing a horse!"
The mounted lady, both guards from the gate and a guard captain strode up the steps,
dispersing any curious onlookers before them. Dominic forestalled the captain by addressing
him. "My friends and I haven't done any wrong. I refused to sketch this lady because I am
free to choose whom I draw!"
Ned's thought crossed Ben's mind. "I don't blame Dominic. Just look at the frosty-faced
fishwife—the behind of her horse would have made a more handsome picture to draw!"
Unwittingly, Ben laughed aloud at his dog's comical observation.
The guard captain, a neat-uniformed and stern-faced man, glared at him. "So you think it's
funny, eh?" He indicated the group with a wave of his gauntleted hand. "Are these the ones?"
The smaller guard from the gate answered. "Aye, Captain, that's them. They slipped by us
without paying, both boys, the girl and the dog. We couldn't leave our post an' give chase."
The woman pointed her quirt at Dominic. "That's the one who insulted me, impudent young
wretch. I demand that you do something about it, Captain. My husband is the prefect of
Toulouse, he wouldn't allow that sort of behaviour in our town, I'm certain of that!"
Hands clasped behind his back, the captain circled Ben and his friends, lecturing them
severely. "This is no laughing matter, as you'll soon find out!"
Karay smiled sweetly at him. "Oh come now, sir, we aren't really guilty of anyth—"
"Silence!" The captain's face reddened as he shouted. "Defrauding the guards by entry without
payment! Setting up business without licence, fees or permission! Trading on the very steps of
Comte Bregon's residence, where none are allowed to set up stall! Insulting a lady visitor to
Veron and setting a dog upon her horse! And you have the effrontery to stand there and tell
me that you've done no wrong? Arrest them and take them away immediately! The dog, too!"
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