Page 34 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)

Then came the children, their parents coaxing and clapping, the little girls in shiny, patent leather shoes, the boys with broad buckles on the toes of theirs.

In and out they wove, a little less confidently than the adults who had come before them, their shy smiles lifted to their proud mamas and papas.

“One day, that will be you,” whispered Penelope, nodding her head at a mother calling words of encouragement to a particularly small child who stood and sucked its thumb and would not move into the circle with the others.

“Ah, you assume I shall have the offspring who will not do as asked,” teased Jillian. “Which, then, will be yours? Perhaps that boy who prances like a horse?”

Penelope shook her head. “I am content to be an aunt. It is too much bother to find a husband.”

The two women meandered through the fair, watching the jugglers and calling out with the crowd during a pantomime of Robin Hood and Maid Marian.

Someone recited a scene from Shakespeare, but this did not hold their attention and they drifted along the tide of people to watch a pie-eating contest instead.

The day was now beginning to grow hot. Even their bonnets and fans and light dresses could not stop the film of sweat that began to form upon their brows.

“Let’s go in here,” suggested Jillian, ducking into the shade of a traveler’s tent.

A sign outside announced: Madame Zahara.

Fortunes told. The heavy fabric of the structure kept the direct sun from burning their skin, but a musty warmth was trapped inside the enclosure.

The sounds outside grew muted, quiet enough that they could hear the crackling voice of the crone sitting at the small table.

“G’day, dearies.” She grinned, an action that revealed surprisingly healthy teeth amidst a sea of wrinkles. “Come to have your fortune read? Cross my palm with silver and I shall tell you what your future holds.”

Penelope sat herself down at once and placed a coin in the old woman’s hand—though “woman” was a stretch of the imagination.

Her features, crisscrossed with lines and painted in a deep tan, were big-boned and looked to have been recently shaved.

She was also unusually cheery for a woman in her profession, as they tended to carry an air of dark mystery about them.

At least, the ones who used to pass through her village had.

“Let’s have a little look, shall we?” said the woman, laying down her own rather large hand for Penelope to place hers in.

“Ooo! What have we here?” The palmist leaned in closer, her head shawl draping over the table. “A changeling! Brought by the fairies and raised by human folk. Have you ever had an itch between your shoulders where your wings should have been?”

Penelope’s gaze rose toward the palmist’s face, possibly seeking to know if she was having a laugh at her expense.

A movement at the entrance to the tent made all three of them look up to see another woman with shawls and bangles stop in her tracks and open her mouth to cry, “Kaven! You useless son of a dog! What have I told you about messing with my business? Get out! Get out right now before I put a curse on ’ee! ”

The first palmist, chortling and ducking as the newcomer planted a heavy hand on “her” back, darted past the furious creature to escape the tent, but not before “her” head shawl was unceremoniously yanked off to reveal the short hair of a man.

“And don’t come back until you’ve earned your supper with some real work!” shouted Madame Zahara before turning to her wide-eyed customers. “’Usbands,” she muttered. “What use are they?”

She sat down slowly, her bangles jingling on her wrists as she flicked the fringes of her shawl from her face. “What’s it to be?” she asked, getting straight to business. “Crystal, cards, or palm? I don’t ’old with no tea leaves. Messy and wasteful, they are.”

“Oh,” said Penelope, somewhat rattled, “I’ve already had my reading.”

“Wha’? From Kaven? That weren’t no readin’. He’s just a foolish old goat who likes to have fun with my customers.” Her eyes darkened. “ I’ll tell you the truth. You’d best be sure you want to ’ear it.”

“Er, no thank you,” Penelope answered, standing up quite suddenly. “Perhaps Jillian would like to have a go.”

Madame Zahara eyed Jillian in a manner that was most unsettling. It was completely opposite to the mischief of Kaven. Her eyes bored into Jilly’s, seeking. “Yes,” she said slowly, “you have an open soul. You will be easy to read.”

As if in a trance, Jilly sat down and laid her hand upon the table like an offering.

“Silver first,” said the old woman.

For a moment, the trance was broken. Jilly fished inside her pocket for the necessary coin while her mind raced. Is this wise? Do I want the hear the truth?

The answer came back with surprising speed. Yes. Yes, she did want the truth. Whatever it was, it was better to know it. Perhaps it would show her the way through the difficulties that besieged her marriage.

She planted her hand down firmly, the coin resting in her palm. “I am ready.”

The coin disappeared inside the multitude of shawls.

Madame Zahara bent over Jillian’s hand, scrutinizing it.

She nodded as she did so, as if agreeing with a voice only she could hear.

“You have choices. That is good. Here are the signs.” She closed her eyes, as if reading something written in her mind.

“The new will feel old. The old will feel new. Now heed my warning: love will grow cold until you embrace new beginnings.”

Madame Zahara sat back abruptly. “That is all.” She waved a hand toward the open flap that served as a doorway.

“Go now. I wish to eat my lunch.” Without further ado, she reached under the table and drew out a basket from which she claimed a sandwich.

As if her customers were no longer there, she sank her teeth into the bread.

“Go on,” she said, munching as she spoke, “Off with ’ee. ”

Slightly stunned, Jillian rose and made to leave. Pen slipped her arm through Jilly’s and led her from the dark interior of the tent. “Come on. Let’s find some ices. We can forget about that old woman. She makes her money scaring gullible people. We will not be her fools.”

“I’m not so sure, Pen,” said Jillian. “There is some truth to what she said.”

“Oh, poppycock. She was especially vague. You could apply what she said to anyone. That is her tactic. Don’t be misled by her clever act.”

“I don’t know. Things between me and Lewis have been strained for some time. Our life together was a new beginning, and I have not embraced it.”

“Anyone who has been placed in an unfamiliar environment will struggle,” answered Penelope. “As for love growing cold, anyone can see how much you and my brother adore each other. You’ve both had adjustments to make. Give it time. You’ll figure it out together.”

Jilly wanted to agree. She nodded as if she did. But the old woman’s words kept milling about in her thoughts. What was the new that felt old? Was it the excitement of their love that was waning? What old thing would feel new? The Bradford way of life?

No, Penelope was right. The prediction was purposefully vague to make her believe whatever thoughts fitted the open-ended words.

As she stood, deep in thought, another body bumped into hers. This time, it spun away before being tackled by a man in a white apron. The body was small and bedraggled and belonged to a dirty urchin who cradled an apple to his chest while the stall owner lifted him to his feet by the scruff.

“Got you, you little thief! It’s off to the Old Bailey with you. I’ve had enough of you lot pilfering my goods.”

The boy squirmed and wriggled in an attempt to get free, which only earned him a cuff about the ears.

“What’s he done?” Jillian asked, although the answer was as clear as daylight.

“He stole an apple from my stall, the little beggar,” answered the man.

“An apple? He stole one apple? And for that, you would have him up before the judge? Where is your mercy, sir? Can you not see he is hungry?”

“Let his parents feed him, then!” said the man.

“Ain’t got no parents,” the boy told him, though it was doubtful this would make a difference to his accuser.

“Should be in the workhouse, earning your bread,” was the harsh reply.

“Excuse me,” Jillian interrupted. “How much for the apple?”

“They’re four for a penny.”

“Is that all?” Jilly dug her hand into her pocket. “Here. That will cover the cost of the apple and a few more besides. He probably knows at least three other hungry children.”

The man looked at the penny and shook his head. “Don’t bother. He’ll only be back to his thieving again tomorrow.”

“No doubt you are correct, if no one will help him. One apple is hardly going to keep him from starving.”

“They’ll feed him in prison,” was the man’s indifferent answer. He renewed his grip on the boy’s arm.

Jillian knelt on her haunches before the boy. “Do you have nowhere to go where you can be cared for?”

“I ran away. Got tired of being beaten,” said the boy blandly, his eyes revealing a soul that was already old and cynical.

Jillian cast her gaze helplessly at Penelope. “What can we do for him?”

Penelope touched her shoulder gently. “Come, Jilly, we have no authority in this matter. If this man will not retract his accusation, the law demands the boy be taken into custody.”

“Can we not take him with us?” Jillian pleaded, the weight of helplessness pushing on her chest.

Pen bent down and took Jilly’s arm. “Come away, sister. What you are asking is impossible.”

Tears shot hotly into Jillian’s eyes. She looked once more at the boy. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

The boy stared back at her as Penelope pulled her away. He appeared to have accepted his fate. It even seemed he felt a measure of pity for her, someone for whom such hardship and callousness was unfamiliar.