Page 24 of The Starling and the Hatter

Ludly held up his hands. “I know. I know. It’s usually the worst idea because everyone is a critic. But not this time,” he said with relish. “I heard a large group saying they’ve come to watch this performance because they’ve heard it’s one of the very best.”

Noises of surprise and appreciation rippled through our ranks.

“In fact.” Ludly held up a finger and paused for effect. “They declared, quite definitively, that the only other act that might rival ours is the Wolfe brothers!”

Everyone cheered. Everyone but me. I shrank, my chest heating and my breath quickening.

“That’s right,” he said over the hooting and hollering. “I know many of you had a chance to see them a few years ago in Murrwood, so you know what a compliment this is.”

Everyone murmured in agreement while I tried not to throw up.

“Will they be in Murrwood when we get there next month?” someone asked.

“That I don’t know,” Ludly answered. “They weren’t there last year, but if they attend this year, it will be telling to see who draws the bigger crowd.”

More cheering.

“Now, let’s get to work.”

Everyone dispersed to get ready for our show while I stood frozen, hating that simply the mention of my brothers’ names would leave me weak and trembling.

It took me longer than I would have liked to shake off the feeling and return my focus to the task at hand, but I did it, conjuring my Starling persona and wrapping myself in her confidence.

When it was time to perform, I sang with precision, power and feeling. I tried to focus my attention on the audience to draw them in, but my eyes kept being pulled back to Hatcher. He leaned against a tree, his arms folded as he watched me. His gaze never wavered when I met his eyes, and I found strength in the way he watched me, always approving and often with a smile. When my nerves would rise up or the fear of a possible encounter with my brothers would cause my hands to shake, all I had to do was look his way and my soul went calm.

Normally, I would have lingered to smile and greet audience members in the hopes of getting a few more coins when our act ended. Instead, I took the headpiece from my hair nearly the moment it ended and went to find Hatcher in the audience. He was already making his way toward me, a look of concern marring his brow. He reached my side and wrapped a comforting arm around my back. I latched on to him and he swept me away, his surety and strength allowing me to breathe.

By the time we had made our way through the various tents and returned to the fire behind Hatcher’s tent, I was calm but exhausted.

“What happened?” Hatcher asked as he helped me to unclasp the brooch that held my “wings” in place. “I didn’t see anyone approach you, so your signal surprised me.” He took the costume piece and set it aside.

“It wasn’t someone there,” I said as I sat down on a log that we had dragged over for this purpose. “It was…” How could I explain this to him? “Memories, I suppose.” I looked across the fire to where he stood.

“Memories?”

I nodded, and in the ensuing silence, Hatcher sat down across from me, but he didn’t question. I knew I tended to snap at him when he asked too many questions, so he rarely did. It was unfair of me. He didn’t deserve my anger just for wanting to know me better, but fear makes even the kindest person into a monster on occasion. “Someone mentioned my family just before the performance,” I admitted. “That’s all.” I tried to shrug it off, but I could see from his expression that he knew my admission was a significant one.

“What happened to them?” he asked carefully.

I held his gaze but didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell him this story. At least not all of it, but perhaps I could share a portion. As I tried to decide what I could say, the silence stretched long enough that he said, “You don’t have to tell me.”

I knew that, but I wanted to. So I took a slow breath, preparing for the inevitable onslaught of anger and sadness that would accompany the telling of this story. “My father died when I was seven. The story went that there was a band of men who came around with weapons and threats, wanting to steal our wagon—our home, our entire livelihood.” I recited it much like my mother had, time and time again. “And my father fought them off one by one. By the end, he was triumphant and all assailants had either died or fled. But his wounds were too great”—I swallowed—“and he died a few days later from infection.” I was grateful I didn’t remember that night. I only knew the story because it had been repeated so often, first by my mother and then by my brothers. Looking back, I had to wonder if my mother had turned it into such a heroic tale in order to make his death mean something other than just pain, desperation and loss. My brothers had repeated it as an example of family loyalty and the reason we should never bow to the demands of others. “My mother wasn’t the same after that. I’ve often wondered if she didn’t want the life of a peddler and a festival wanderer.” I lifted a helpless shoulder. “But that’s what my father was, and in choosing him, she chose that life. So when my father was gone, the difficulties of living every day with no assurance that there would be a next became too much for her. I think she gave up.” My voice broke and I had to look down as I tried to blink away my tears.

I heard him stand and then felt him sit on the log beside me before draping an arm over my shoulders and pulling me in so I could rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Elise.”

I just nodded. There was so much more to the story, but sharing that much was enough. I let his warm strength comfort me for a time as I stared into the fire. I was surprised that the anger didn’t come. The sadness was there, but the anger didn’t rise up the way it usually did. I was comfortable there beside Hatcher, and after a few minutes, my eyes started to blink slowly. “I’m exhausted,” I confessed and climbed to my feet.

“Sleep well,” he said.

I readied for bed and went to climb under the wagon where my bedroll was laid out, happy to let the calm night enfold me.

Maddox

The shouts and laughter of the festival melded with the sound of my needle running through the fabric in my hands. Working on something for Elise was both a creative challenge and a joy. The work never felt like a chore because I enjoyed seeing her wear things that I’d created. Knowing she wore things I’d made with my own hands created a certain intimacy that appealed to me.

Of course I never told her that, because even in my head, it sounded…not quite right. Like I was a creepy weasel of a man who wanted to dress her up like a doll. But truly, that wasn’t what it was. It just made me proud to see her wearing my work, which was why I was so carefully stitching the decorations onto the hat that she’d chosen.

She’d confided in me last night, revealing just a little bit of her brokenness. But today she was back to her usual self. It was the last day of the Viago festival, and tomorrow we’d be off to Duskmoor.