Kerry saw Justy too late. She knew instantly that he had caught a glimpse of the big green caubeen that topped her disguise. She backed quickly into the shadows of a spice stall and looked across the square. Justy was scanning the crowd. She smiled. His right boot had a hole in the sole. And his coat looked loose. He needed someone to look after him. She scowled at the thought of Eliza Cruikshank. The tossy-locked florence.
She felt someone’s eyes on her. She recognized the watchman from the night before. His long, narrow face. And his sharp eyes. He was staring right at her, but it was impossible for him to see her, she was sure. She eased herself back further into the darkness, but the man didn’t look away. She held her breath.
Justy said something, and he and the watchman stood up and walked into the crowd. Kerry exhaled slowly. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her after all. The woman minding the stall was looking at her, eyes like two pips in an old brown apple. Kerry blew her a kiss and she chuckled.
Kerry was dressed as an apprentice boy, in black coat and breeches, brown woolen hose, and cheap black clogs. Her long, dark hair was curled tight and pinned under the big green hat. It was a good disguise, one she had worn almost every day when she was a teenager, when she had trawled the Broad Way and the markets, cutting open men’s pockets with a quick, thin blade, and walking away with their wallets. She had been an excellent tooler, quick and careful, and not too greedy, until a pistol ball in her shoulder had made the point that if she continued with a life of crime, it was liable to be a short one.
So she had given up life on the cross. But she had kept up her skills, by practicing here and there. And she had held on to the disguise.
She had gone from Hughson’s Tavern to her home, to dress in the clothes and the shoes and the old green country hat that she kept locked away in a small chest on top of her closet. It had been nearly a year since she had last put on the disguise, but she remembered all of it: how to stand like a man, and how to walk like one, uncaring, with a slight slouch, her hands in her pockets, and her head forward. And, best of all, how to slip into character, how to adopt the attitude of ownership and privilege that came with being male.
She had walked down into Canvas Town, thrilling with the feeling of sudden freedom. No one condescended to her; no one fell silent when they registered her presence; no one eyed her in the way so many men felt free to eye a woman, regardless of her class. She had become just another apprentice, invisible, and able to go, almost unchallenged, wherever she wanted.
She had known Canvas Town well when she was younger. It was her cousin Lew’s home ground, and most of the city’s black population had spent at least some time in its encampments. But it had changed as the men who owned the land had begun building on its southern and eastern bounds, hemming the shanties into an increasingly narrow strip of land along the shore of the Hudson River and forcing them upland, across the steep ground of the old forts on the Star and Foundry Redoubts, and down to the edge of the marshland around Hudson’s Kill.
Kerry had never been this far north before. The squatters had stripped the old forts bare, and used the wood from their palisades to make walls and pathways between the shacks. There was a low hum of sound and the smell of sewage and cooking food, and when she glanced through the open doors of the shanties and tents, she saw people of all colors huddled around low tables, eating and talking.
She kept moving, threading her way through the crowd, along a narrow lane that dropped steeply out of the old Star Redoubt and seemed to lead roughly north.
The wall surprised her.
It was about eight feet high, covered in a rough stucco of mud and straw. The shacks and lean-tos were built right against it, so it was impossible to follow it around. She backtracked and came up another lane, and then another, each time meeting the same rough, windowless wall.
It was nearly an hour before she found the entrance. There was a clearing at the end of an alleyway, an open space around a gap in the buildings that was just wide enough to allow a carriage. A big, sunburned man with a black wedge of a beard leaned carelessly on the wall, taking bites from a strip of dried fish. He kept his eyes on Kerry as she approached.
She rolled her shoulders. “How dost do, my buff?”
The man’s eyes were dark and bloodshot, like squashed flies on a handkerchief. He tore another piece of fish off with his teeth, leaving a thread of saliva on his beard.
Kerry ignored the worm in her guts and tried again. “I’m told as how you can buy good cloth hereabouts. Like silk, they say.”
“Who’s they?” The man’s voice was rough.
“People about the place. A friend of mine bought a shawl for his blowen a year or so back. I thought I’d see about doing the same.”
The man sniffed, hawked, spat. He half-turned to look into the entrance.
“Faisal,” he called. “Customer.”
A small round man in a long brown tunic and baggy white trousers appeared. His beard was cropped close to his dark skin, and his head was shaved. His nose was small and hooked, like an owl’s beak. “Yes?”
Kerry dug her hands in her pockets. “I came about buying a shawl. For my tib. It’s her birthday next week.”
“Who told you to come here?”
“A friend of mine. He did for his wife last year and she was right pleased.”
“I’m sure she was. Our cloth is of excellent quality.” His small, dark eyes skipped up and down. “But expensive.”
There was a handful of coins in Kerry’s pocket. She jiggled them in her hand. “I ain’t as well breeched as some, it’s true. But I’m warm enough.”
The man looked thoughtful. “We close at dusk. But I can make an exception, I suppose. Wait here.”
He disappeared through the entrance, turning sharply left to avoid a blank wall that prevented Kerry from seeing inside. A moment later, there was a squeaking sound, and the man reappeared, pushing a handcart laden with bolts of colored cloth.
“How about this one?” The man pulled an orange shawl from the top of the pile. It was slightly coarse, and Kerry guessed it was made of old wool.
The man smiled. “Yes, you are right. Not for a true lady.” He flipped through the bolts, and pulled out a pale blue length of cloth. “Try this. Lambswool.”
The cloth was luxurious, as soft as fresh cotton, but with the texture of a light blanket.
“It’s rum. But the shawl my friend bought is finer than this, I’d say.”
“Indeed? His wife is a lucky lady, then. Such garments are very expensive.”
“I told you. I have coin.”
The man held up his hands. “Of course. Forgive me.” He fumbled at the bottom of a stack of bolts of cloth and eased out a single rose-colored shawl.
“Here.” He held out the scarf. “This may be what your friend bought for his wife.”
Kerry’s fingers tingled as she ran her hand over the material. It was like stroking a kitten.
The man chuckled. “Beautiful, is it not? Let me show you.” He shook the shawl open, so that it floated in the air for a moment, like a pink cloud.
Kerry glanced down at the cart. The edge of a square of pale yellow cloth had pulled loose from the bottom of the pile. It looked like silk, edged with gold embroidery.
“What’s that?”
“Ah.” The man cocked his head to the side. “That is not for sale.”
“It’s on your cart.”
“A mistake, I assure you.”
“It’s dimber.”
The man nodded. “It is very rare. Made from the hair of a goat that lives high in the mountains of a place called Kasheer, very far from here.”
“May I touch it? Just to see?”
The man’s head bobbled side to side. Neither a yes or a no. Kerry reached out her fingers. The cloth was as fine as silk, but softer. She knew instantly that it was the same cloth that the girl’s robe was made of.
“How much is a shawl made of this?”
“It is not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale.”
“It is too much.”
“What did I say before?” Kerry snapped.
The man gave her a long look. He quoted a number.
Kerry laughed. “You’re cracked.”
The man shrugged “I told you. It is very rare.”
“Rare as rocking horse shit.”
The man sighed. He held up the shawl that he had unwrapped. “Did you like this one?”
“I did. Until I saw that other. Now I think I might have to save up a bit longer.”
“I see.” The man began to fold up the shawl again. “Perhaps you will think about it and come and see me again.”
“Perhaps.”
The man gave a thin smile. “But before dusk the next time, please.”