“Why are you doing this?”
“Because we want to sell all our cakes at the market.”
“This is ridiculous. And stupid. I never wear all these fancy things!”
Blythe grumbled, cursed, squirmed, scratched various parts of his body in protest, and even threatened to throw up all over himself. None of those, however, moved his sister. Molly just kept to what she’d been doing, her determination to doll up her brothers taking on a grim edge, even, judging from the odd light in her eyes. It was a gleam that was alarming as far as Blythe was concerned.
“Stop your moaning, Blythe, if you don’t want my favorite mixing spoon finding its way up your arse.” Molly frowned more deeply as she laced and buttoned, brushed and wiped. Then she broke out into a broad grin as she finally stopped, taking a step back to survey the damage. “See, dear? You look positively adorable!”
At least he wasn’t eatable, but that dubious honor must be limited to the views of non-family members. Somehow imagining Molly saying the same thing seemed rather disgusting and wrong.
Blythe dared not move. The suit he was being forced to wear was beyond uncomfortable. A loose shirt contained tightly by a waistcoat that felt it should be worn by a ten-year-old, his Sunday jacket, trousers, and old but shiny leather shoes he’d long avoided wearing because they were too stiff and uncomfortable. All he needed was a silk hat to complete the awful absurdity of his appearance.
Hands pressed stiffly against his sides, he said, “I look like something the cat shat.”
“You’re complaining?” Bertie retorted from where he stood—where he’d been standing for the last several moments in fact, after Molly had finished with him.
Taller and far bulkier than Blythe, sunburnt and scarred from all those years spent in intricate woodwork, Albert Midwinter had the look of a young man no one would dare trifle with. And he’d been in quite a few messy scrapes in the past and was known to show off his battle scars with pride, though those were all moments in which he was forced to defend his honor, not be the antagonist.
For the present, however, he was utterly helpless against Molly, who’d spent a great deal of time earlier fussing over him while Blythe cowered in the corner, watching in horrified fascination his brother’s transformation from amiable, gentle giant to sullen, oversized dandy.
Bertie was a dandy right then, no different from Blythe. His bulk and his disposition, however, made the current scene a pathetic one, for the amiable, gentle giant couldn’t—or refused to—move. As to whether or not it was because he was plain terrified into a fixed state, Blythe couldn’t guess. As it was, poor Bertie stood where Molly had left him, all stiff and straight and freshly washed, the light of fear in his eyes a brilliant, terrible sparkle.
“You both complain too much,” Molly said, laughing, and gave Blythe’s jacket a final brush before tripping away in a whirlwind of petticoats.
“What’s the point of looking like scarecrows if this is all about selling cakes? People will just laugh at us for being the most overdressed vendors at the market,” Bertie said, the wild light of fear still in his eyes.
“This is embarrassing,” Blythe added. “My friends are going to laugh at me.”
“Which friends?” Molly asked without skipping a beat. “Jack Wicket or Jack Wicket?”
“That only goes to show that I can’t afford to lose the respect of the one friend I have. Have you no soul?”
Molly snorted as she rummaged around for only God knew what. “Considering how much of a good-for-nothing that boy is, I really doubt if the loss will cost you much.”
Blythe narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re mocking my pain, Molly. Had I known that sisters were born to make one’s life a wasteland of misery, I’d have offered myself to an orphanage the moment I learned to crawl.”
“I think roaming bands of gypsies are more interesting,” Bertie cut in sullenly. Blythe had to agree there.
That only earned both young men another unsympathetic—not to mention unladylike—snort from Molly. This time, though, she at least had the good grace to suppress her amusement, which the strain in her voice gave away.
“Blythe,” she said, walking up to him to give his cheek a light pinch, “you exaggerate as always.” Crinkling her nose at him, she swept past, adjusting her bonnet. “Come along, you two. Let’s make some good money today.”
As she threw the cottage door open and walked grandly out, Bertie and Blythe could only look at each other helplessly.
“I tried to offer myself up to an orphanage when I found out how difficult my life was going to be with Molly giving orders,” Bertie said, his voice sounding more like a thin bleat than a healthy young man’s. “It didn’t work.”
* * * *
The good thing about being forced to play vendor at the market—more specifically alongside Mrs. Pugsley and her potions—was that the stall was nicely situated under the shade of a large tree. At the very least it offered the Midwinter siblings a welcome protection against the sun, and that allayed some of Blythe’s initial fears.
But, yes, only some. As it happened, the more pressing matters were never addressed and were, in fact, not only dismissed by Molly and Mrs. Pugsley, but also worsened. Blythe, it turned out, proved to be an effective draw (though not necessarily sales) among the younger customers and a good number of the old ones. The former thought the world of Blythe’s “gentlemanly look and airs”, and the latter thought the world of his “ill-fitting gentlemanliness”—or whatever on earth that meant. Blythe, in either case, was not amused. Molly, unfortunately, was, and she took care to keep him front and center despite his protests and threats of throwing himself onto the nearest and sharpest farmer’s tool.
Flanked by an energetic, beaming sister and a stuttering, awkward brother, Blythe stood behind the cakes with a dead, frozen look in his eyes as he waited out the time. Even his imagination, so lately fired up, seemed to have stopped functioning, and he couldn’t daydream his way out of an excruciating Saturday.
Beside them, manning her own table that she’d placed against Molly’s, was Mrs. Pugsley and her bottles of gout and disgusting skin sores potions. Blythe had to admit to being relieved by—and especially grateful for—the fact that Mrs. Pugsley never once showed any competitiveness or jealousy, given Molly’s unexpected success. She’d been encouraging and supportive, according to what he’d heard and seen during that brief, gossipy visit, and she didn’t even cheat Molly out of her rightful profits from those early experiments at selling without Molly present.
He stole a glance at Mrs. Pugsley’s direction and found her busy convincing three folks about the magical, miraculous qualities of her potions.
“I hope she stays just as nice for as long as Molly’s here,” he muttered, wondering as well how much profit they needed to amass in order to afford their own stall.
A pair of young ladies walked up to their table, nudging each other and whispering. Blythe held his breath, though he knew that it was useless; the girls were not only older than he but also obvious admirers of Bertie, who looked like he was about to shit all over himself.
“All yours, Bertie,” Blythe muttered, and he stepped away, shuffling to the side before turning around to see if Molly saw what he was attempting to do, which was to magically vanish from the stall and pretend bewilderment on his return.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much room for him to use; even with two tables of goods to sell, there were still four people crowded behind them. No, it was impossible for Blythe to attempt anything. Molly, who’d been busy either enticing passersby to buy her cakes or sharing stories with Mrs. Pugsley during lulls, saw through him easily enough, rolling her eyes when he glanced at her sheepishly.
Sighing, Blythe decided to try a more direct approach. “There aren’t a lot of people buying your cakes right now. May I take a few turns among the stalls?” Sensing his sister hesitating, he pointed at Bertie, who was now obliged to chat up his admirers while looking as though he were on the verge of fainting in shame. Red-faced, damp with sweat, and appearing more and more ill at ease in his fancy clothes, poor Bertie’s tongue had also knotted itself, and he couldn’t do much better than to communicate in broken and nonsensical phrases.
“See?” Blythe prodded. “Bertie looks like he’s enjoying himself. Notice how he’s able to charm two women at a time?”
Molly just stared at Blythe dully. “You know very well that those two are fighting over him. He doesn’t need to make an effort to convince them to give up money for our cakes.”
“But if Bertie can do that with his admirers, who’s to say that he can’t manage the same thing with strangers?” Blythe paused. “Well—just ignore the fact that strangers don’t want to go to bed with him.”
“You’re nothing if not clever when it comes to getting out of work. I’ll give you that.”
“I can’t help it. I’m fifteen. I’m sure you’ve tried to do the same—oh, hell, never mind. I forgot whom I’m talking to.”
Molly clucked. “Oh, all right. I think it’s safe to say that you earned a bit of a break. I do believe you helped me give up half a dozen cakes so far.”
“Oh, sure—by being a glorified prostitute.”
“Blythe, you need to take a walk now before I do something drastic with my foot and your boy parts. And please note that I was born with excellent aim.”
Blythe was wandering through an insane collection of colorful stalls no more than two-and-a-half seconds later.
* * * *
He never thought he’d live to see the day when he’d find the Upchurch market a delight to the senses. He’d been there a few times in the past, but because of his age, he found those adventures to be dull and tedious. Molly and Bertie had always been popular because of their work, and somehow being their baby brother earned him an automatic place in everyone’s regard. For that reason, Blythe was subjected to either strings of compliments expressed in language meant for five-year-olds that set his teeth on edge or the dreaded cheek-pinching or hair tousling, especially among older people. Blythe had therefore learned to associate the market with a perpetual infantile state.
That said, he was pleasantly surprised at the familiar scenes of color, smells, and sounds. Whether or not it was nothing more than an effect of desperately needing to run away from Molly’s stall and the shame of being an overdressed vendor, Blythe couldn’t tell, but it was a possibility he couldn’t dismiss. Perhaps it was a sign of maturity?
He frowned as he mulled that point over while idly scanning the offerings of a wooden toy maker. At length, not finding any rational basis for maturity, he shrugged off such a ridiculous idea and immediately forgot about it. A number of jugglers and wandering musicians negotiated their way through the crowds, momentarily stopping them in their tracks with their tricks and pretty music and collecting a few coins from their audience in their caps or leather purses.
Upchurch, a quiet town tucked away in a remote corner of a remote region situated in a remote part of England, was so obscure and banal a place that nothing could set it apart from the rest of its neighbors. It wasn’t until a group of disaffected magicians from God knew where had decided to say goodbye to a cruel world and find refuge in utter remoteness two centuries ago, when Upchurch’s dull obscurity enjoyed a bit of a prick in the arse, pun unintended. In the market, stalls hawking all manner of magical toys and entertainment suddenly appeared, and they’d been thriving since, though at the expense of the magicians’ respectable standing in society. Once kowtowed to and even revered for their powers, they’d become nothing more than conjurers for parlor tricks when kings decided that they’d no need of those men’s powers.
Blythe decided to see what absurdly brilliant offerings they had and directed himself past stalls crammed with food, crafts, questionable art, and even chapbooks toward the Magicians’ Corner of the market. It was one of the more popular areas, and it was also the most colorful and alarming. Bursts of stars and smoke suddenly shooting up above the trees could be seen from other parts of the market, and children would drag their reluctant parents to where the source was.
When Blythe arrived, he found the Magicians’ Corner just as busy as before, with hordes of families or even small groups of dirty, ragged children milling about in wonder and pleasure, though most couldn’t afford the commissions. From what Blythe understood, magicians benefited greatly from support from the gentry and above, though they continued to sell their current bag of tricks at the market in hopes of further exposure to customers from other towns.
A magic puppet show was being held at one of the stalls. Before it the dusty children in rags eventually congregated, gaping at the remarkable puppets that had come alive and were putting on a brilliant theatre production. With characters both delicate and colorful as well as grotesque and dark, this was by no means a regular Punch and Judy show.
Blythe observed the proprietor sitting off to the side, behind a small table. A large journal lay open on the table, and the stern-looking gentleman was poring over its entries. It was likely that the book contained names of the magician’s clients, and Blythe thought it amusing that he’d be in the middle of doing something quite serious while his magic continued to work just beside him, breathing life into puppets and making them act out a fantastical story for everyone.
Blythe decided to take advantage of the shade provided by some trees just across the way from the stall, and there he stood, watching the show with growing delight, now that he’d all but forgotten about his embarrassing situation at Molly’s table. In fact, he barely even realized that he was still walking around in his best suit, making him stand out among the crowd in the most mortifying way possible.
Before long, apathy and exhaustion born of too much time spent in shame, and the marvelous cacophony of market noise, color, and magic all turned into a potent mix that sank him into a dreamlike haze. He felt as though he were floating inside a marvelous bubble that engaged and soothed his senses, and he would, if he could, live in it for the rest of his life.
Was he smiling? It sure felt like it, but he didn’t care if he looked like an idiot.
Blythe didn’t know how long he stayed in a strange, hypnotic state, but his lovely escape from reality was suddenly interrupted by movement just off to his right. He blinked and frowned, looking around him at first with an annoyed sigh.
Then he glanced to his right, a curse of his tongue, and with a start, he had to swallow it back. The boy who’d caught his attention at the town square not too long ago was not only there, but also looking at him, a questioning and curious light in his eyes. When Blythe met his gaze, the boy didn’t look away immediately; in fact, his unabashed staring seemed to take on an even more curious light, for the boy—absently, it looked like—actually cocked his head a little as he continued to observe Blythe.
The boy didn’t come alone. A man stood beside him, and, judging from the fellow’s simple and somber clothes as well as the haughty disdain on his face as he watched the puppet show, it was safe to guess that he was likely the boy’s tutor. As to why they’d be spending time in the market, which apparently was an object of contempt for the older man, Blythe couldn’t guess.
After a few more seconds of gaze-meeting, the other boy was forced out of his remarkable—not to mention embarrassing—boldness and had to turn away when his companion leaned close enough to say something. They exchanged a few private words and then turned around to walk away, but not before the boy stole another glance in Blythe’s direction and did something that was even more remarkable.
He smiled at Blythe over his shoulder—a brief but brilliant smile that seemed to linger even as he and his companion vanished in the market crowd.