7.11 The Witchling Shama
He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately, he no longer had the weight of a foal. I briskly ordered him to stand on his own feet and pushed back against his breast slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued. Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed. As I watched, glancing now and then around Frey’s big head, which was more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that. When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. The man took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.” Mrs. Penn stepped forward. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?” “Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .” “Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of the sort?” Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . . “Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.”
7.10 The Witchling Shama
I was just thinking about using some of the rags in the basement to make toys, when a knock at the gate sent Frey into a high energy nervousness. He nickered his high-pitched greeting to a fellow horse, then wheeled about and with his ears jetted forward, trotted toward the sound of a small wagon being backing up into the area. Frey understood the nature of vehicles. He wouldn’t get in the way, but he was very excited about another horse approaching. He did a couple of threatening rears with his hooves pawing the air as if he were a wild stallion proclaiming his mares. His bugles sounded fierce. “Frey,” I called. “Back away. You’re just getting some hay. No challenges from anyone. And I bet the horse pulling that wagon is a gelding.” Frey’s ears flickered, listening to my words, as usual, but as to whether my words calmed him any, it was doubtful, because he was now issuing even louder battle cries, pawing the ground, and tossing his head up and down to show how dominant he was. Mrs. Penn had backed both herself and the children away from the stallion’s posturing, and the officer, a man stouter, but perhaps less wise, was advancing toward me, probably in order to grab at my dress and propel me back. Unheeding such things, I strode forward, spoke sharply to Frey, then circled my arms around his neck. Stallions have thick necks. I couldn’t reach to encircle the full span of him, but Frey didn’t know that. He halted his frantic motions and went completely still in his efforts not to do me any harm. As I’d said before, he’d learned not to step on me, not because he had the sense to know that he might damage my feet, but because the one time he’d done so, I’d screamed piercingly. Frey did not want me to scream again. He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately he no longer had the weight of a foal. I curtly told him to stand on his own feet and pushed back slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued. Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed, and as I watched, glancing now and then around the big head more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that. When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. He took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.” Mrs. Penn, bravely stepped forward then. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?” “Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .” “Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of that sort?” Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . . “Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.” “Then the boys will have something easier to feed Frey when they want to, and the grain will make Frey shiny again,” I explained. “The brush and curry comb will help with that, too. I had both at my shack, but I had to leave in kind of a rush. I forgot to grab them. Since then I’ve been using leaves, but Frey likes to roll, which really pushes the dirt and mud down deep. With the proper tools, you’ll see how beautiful he truly is.” I realized suddenly that I was babbling, although both Mrs. Penn and the officer were watching and listening intently. What was so fascinating in what I’d said? It wasn’t like me to talk about myself. I was normally tighter of lip than Mr. Cutworthy, who was a confirmed hermit, only coming into the village for an occasional food item. It was said that he didn’t even speak when he came into the general store, only grunted and pointed. Not that I was a grunter, but I’d learned long ago that people wanted to talk at me and not listen to anything I had to say. The cart/wagon had pulled out of the yard. I watched as the man closed the gate. I left Frey to go check that the lever was properly fastened. It wasn’t that Frey would run away, but he might get into mischief. He had no hesitations about eating people’s front yard flowers or nosing at their windows to see what they were doing inside. And if there was a goat around, he’d chase it. He’d never forgiven the one that had chewed on his tail.
7.9 The Witchling Shama
Just like his big brother, Carlo kept his hand more or less steady and firm. But when Frey’s teeth descended, Carlo took a step back, and the apple dropped to the ground. Frances scurried forward and picked it up, then placed it back onto Carlo’s hand. “Try again, Carlo. You can do I,” Frances encouraged. Carlo bravely held the treat balanced in his hand the second time, and Frey took the whole apple in his mouth, something he didn’t usually do. When I fed Frey apples, he sliced and diced with his rather large teeth, managing to slobber all over me as he enjoyed the treat. But not with little Carlo. Frey was so neat and quiet about the process, one would think he was an old horse, practically ready to be put out into the pasture for retirement. Frey was such a good boy. I told him so several times, feeling as proud of him as if he really was my baby. I complimented his good manners, then hugged his neck. Frey’s ears did a flipflop as he listened to my voice. Then he nickered softly and having finished crunching and munching the apple, he butted my chest, hopeful for more yummies. I think he could smell the carrots in my pocket. Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle had stood a short distance away, watching the children’s interactions with Frey. Since both boys had shared their treat, backed away, and were suddenly involved in a fierce game of tag where Frances was running slowly enough so that Carlo could catch him, I expected some wise crack from the officer about how I was always talking to my horse, but the man said nothing. The man’s eyes were studying the stallion, no doubt noting the clean lines of Frey’s carriage and his dished face, denoting the fact that Frey must have had a sire with hot blood, even though that supposedly wasn’t true. (Unless the farmer had sneaked his mare into an Arabian stud’s pen when no one was looking. Would Mr. Harrington have done that? Sure, if he thought he could get away with it.) I wondered, not for the first time, why Officer Krugel didn’t need to be at the police office or out on call. He’d been with us, practically non-stop, since he’d picked up the boys and me from their parents’ house. Surely we three (well, four, if you added Frey) didn’t rank that high for the best use of the man’s time. But maybe Tinkle Town had a low crime rate, and the man usually spent most of his time waiting around in the station, practically twiddling his thumbs. I refilled Frey’s water basin and watched as he quickly drained it. Normally, when Frey wasn’t thirsty, he splashed in the water, playing with its spray, but he was a serious drinker at the moment. No time for such wasteful practices. As I refilled the basin again, I thought about an even bigger problem. Boredom. A stallion with nothing to do would often make trouble, gnawing on wood, tormenting the lawn furniture, or working on the gate lock in case he could make an escape. To prevent such mischief, I’d need to provide something for Frey’s entertainment — and quickly. My mind recalled a couple of flat balls I’d seen in one of the attic boxes. If I could find a ball pump, one of the balls could go to the boys, but if I kept the other ball in its flattened state, Frey would have something to toss up and flip about with his teeth. He’d love that.
7.8 The Witchling Shama
Frances gingerly stuck out the bread, his hand trembling again, but still flat as I’d showed him. Once more Frey mouthed the bread, wrinkled his upper lip, then took it. In a moment the piece of bread had been chewed and swallowed without dropping a single piece. Frances’ face glowed, and standing next to him felt like being beside a capped pan full of boiling water. He seemed ready to jump into the air, cry out in a high-pitched and excited voice, and run around the yard in his excitement, but he didn’t. He simply let out a long breath of wonder and looked up at me like I’d done something marvelous, like I’d fulfilled some long unexpressed dream or given him the present of a lifetime. I felt that same sparkling energy rising up inside me. I suddenly believed I could belt out a song and inexplicably sing in tune. But I was an adult. I knew such miracles didn’t exist. I only offered a mutual sharing of joy with Frances held within a teeth-grinning smile. “Me, too,” Carlo said, stepping closer, pushing against me in his eagerness. His small hand clung to my arm, entreating me with such earnestness that I felt a compulsion to sweep up the child and hug him to me. Was this what a mother felt like whenever she looked at her child? Was this the essence of love? Carlo had already taken a couple of bites from the apple I’d given him, but four-year-olds have small bites, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Frey never turned down an apple core. Yet, the apple was still pretty whole, and I knew that Frey would be quite content with such a treat. He hadn’t had an apple since we’d left the village. Once more I went over the routine, stressing hand flatness, but trying to avoid scaring the child with the threat of Frey’s big teeth.
7.7 The Witchling Shama
Frey was excited to see us. He bugled, then did a head nodding stunt until I walked over and took his whole face in my arms and hugged him. What a baby! When I gave him a big loud, smucking kiss right above his muzzle, Frances made a face and said, “Yick. He’s not your boyfriend.” Where had Frances gotten such a thought? It wasn’t like I was doing the stop breathing and suck on a tongue business with Frey. That would be disgusting. I mean, not when I’d done that with Frank. Oh, my. Where had that thought come from? I wiggled my mind away from that memory and focused on how it might just be a little strange to be kissing a horse. Probably nobody else did such a thing, but Frey was my baby. I’d raised him. Didn’t that count for making him half-human and deserving of kisses? Mothers always kissed their children. The kids continued to watch, probably hoping I’d do something else utterly ridiculous, but then Carlo wanted to know if he could feed Frey the apple, and Frances chimed in about giving the horse the bread treat he was holding. Okay, time to move on. I couldn’t get lost in my thoughts, especially not when Frank was staring at my lips, almost as if he was thinking the same thought about the kiss we’d shared back at deserted house in the middle of a dusty corral. I shook my head figuratively to stop such musings, or any other reveries that involved one extremely handsome, highly muscled and very firm-bodied officer, who was still staring at me with an attentive look on his face, only a few feet away . . . and showed the boys how to do flat hands for safe horse feeding. Frances went first with the slightly mushed piece of bread I’d given him. (Not that the piece of bread had been flattened and mauled when I’d given it to him.) Frances’ hand was perfectly flat but kind of shaky, especially when Frey opened his mouth. The teeth of a horse are not only numerous — a stallion can have as many as 44 teeth — but they’re big. They make a young child’s teeth look like play toys. A horse’s teeth never stop growing, a fact that I didn’t offer up to young Frances as he shut his eyes and hoped he’d still have fingers after Frey took the bread. I soothed Frances, telling him how brave he was. Of course, I didn’t inform him that a horse can’t actually see someone’s hand stretched out like that. A horse truly can’t see directly in front, so Frey is more or less almost blind at the point where he’s lapping up a treat. But horses have other senses. Frey lipped at Frances’ stretched out hand, took the piece of bread in his big yellow-green teeth, flipped it out of Frances’ hand and waved it up and down like a toy he was shaking. Then my sweet stallion handed the half-broken piece of bread back to Frances. “Why did he do that?” Frances asked, his small face wrinkling up with confusion. “He’s playing with you,” I explained. “Hand him the bread again and see if he’ll eat it this time. If not, I’ll give you one of my carrot sticks.”
7.6 The Witchling Shama
After eating, I asked if Mrs. Penn had been able to get some hay for Frey. She said that Mr. Beanie, who sold food for pets and livestock, had agreed to bring over a few bales later in the evening. Officer Krugle, meanwhile, was discussing favorite foods with the boys. Both of them shouted out, “Candy.” I smiled at that and continued conversing with Mrs. Penn. “I found a shed in the backyard that will be great for keeping Frey’s hay and my tack.” “Officer Krugle.” I rather rudely interrupted his probing about what else the boys liked to eat. I hadn’t meant to. It had just slipped out the moment the thought hit me. “Sorry, but will you be able to bring over my saddle and bridle, or do you need me to go get them?” “Sure,” he said, which left me confused. He clarified. “I’ll bring your tack. Right now it’s in my house, since I returned the buggy. I’ll be glad to get my couch back.” I thanked him and returned to Mrs. Penn. “Do you think Mr. Beanie might have some kind of tub for Frey’s water? The one I’m using now is too shallow. In fact, I need to go out and check on him and fill up the basin again.” Because I’d brought up Frey, the boys wanted to go out and see him. “Yes, but no more riding today.” When I explained that working with horses meant lots of baths, their smiles turned downward. “We used to only take a bath once a month,” Frances said. “Dad said baths weren’t good for our skin.” “But Mommy said that wasn’t true,” Carlo piped up. “Dad didn’t like that. He hit Mommy when she said that.” The little boy’s face paled, remembering that maybe his dad had caused their mother’s death. “Yeah, we had to be careful. Dad got mad a lot. We couldn’t make noise either,” Frances said, as he stretched out his hand to place it on his brother’s shoulder. “Okay, let’s go check on Frey,” I said, forestalling any more dark tales. I knew that talking about such things might help the boys in the long run, but for the moment, I thought they’d had enough trauma. We needed to move in positive directions to help them get started with a happier life. Mrs. Penn, watchful of our discussion, nodded. “Yes, I want to see that beautiful stallion again. He’s really quite magnificent. Where did you get him?” I paused a moment to tell everyone about Frey’s beginnings, how nobody had wanted an orphan foal, and how I’d raised him, feeding him nightly bottles just like a baby.” “And then when he grew up and turned out so well, the farmer wanted him back. I couldn’t do that. Frey was my best friend. I had to work for the man for an entire year so that I could keep Frey.” “But that’s not fair. You did all the work raising the horse,” Frances said. “Yeah. I thought it was unfair, too, but there’s a lot of unfairnesses in life. You just have to shrug and get on with making the best of it. Besides, I was willing to work hard to make up for having Frey in my life. He makes everything worthwhile.” I left out the whole law suit thing and how the village had turned against me because of it. The fact that I’d won and the judge and said Mr. Harrington owed me for that year seemed unimportant. Since I’d never seen any of the money awarded me and had needed to flee the village, that was all back in my past now, to be forgotten, so that bitterness didn’t suck out my marrow, as Old Mother used to say. But justice’s inequity was definitely too much for little boys to process, even though Frances nodded like he got it. Carlo was too busy taking a bite out of the apple he’d been given to feed Frey. Frances had a piece of bread, which wasn’t Frey’s favorite, but he’d happily take most goodies from someone offering him a treat. I’d crammed a couple of carrot sticks in my pocket. We’d also had leftover asparagus, but I wasn’t sure Frey would eat that when cooked. Carrot sticks were always a sure thing.
7.5 The Witchling Shama
Frances placed his sandwich down on the plate and leaned forward. “Really? Shama’s going to teach us to read?” he said. “Mom started to do that, but Dad said it was a waste of money to buy books. Mom used to write the alphabet in the dirt, but we never learned all of it. Dad kept telling Mom it was time for her to do something whenever she sat down to teach us. Carlo doesn’t even know the first three letters, but I learned ten of them. Except the b and d. They’re really tough.” All the adults smiled. That was a story, common to most children. I’d always thought it was poor planning on the part of the person who’d invented writing. I would have given those letters completely different characters, like an H with bars at the top and bottom or a W with a pole in the middle. But then, maybe the crossed H and the poled W might also cause a muddle of confusion. Anyway, I told Frances that I couldn’t wait to get started. “I love to read,” I said. “And soon, that will be you, too, having adventures in books. You get to go anywhere you like, even to fly like a bird, if you can find a book like that. And you want to know a secret? Once you learn your letters, you can even make up stories in your head and write them all down. I saw some paper in the attic. We can use that to make books! If that’s okay with Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle,” I added. “Just for a while,” the woman told me. “Once the boys get caught up, then they can attend school with the other children. Well, Frances can. I’m afraid that Carlo is too young yet. But he can work with you during school hours.” I nodded, taking note that my new job would only be temporary. Our sandwiches were chicken, and we had fresh asparagus and apple slices. Mrs. Penn said it had all come from the town’s restaurant. The boys didn’t comment. They probably didn’t know what a restaurant was. I’d never been to one, unless washing dishes in the back counted. “Can you cook?” Mrs. Penn asked me. I wasn’t a great cook. I’d never had much training, but the house mothers had shown me the basics so that I could help them out in the kitchen. In the last house, I’d cooked all of Mrs. White’s meals because she was always feeling poorly, although she had a good, strong appetite when the food was ready. Sometimes, I wondered how she got along without me, but after I left her house, I was living in the termite-invested lean-to, and I wasn’t willing to go back, even if she’d asked me to. After eating, I asked if Mrs. Penn had been able to get some hay for Frey. She said that Mr. Beanie, who sold food for pets and livestock, had agreed to bring over a few bales later in the evening. Officer Krugle, meanwhile, was discussing favorite foods with the boys. Both of them shouted out, “Candy.” I smiled at that and continued conversing with Mrs. Penn. “I found a shed in the backyard that will be great for keeping Frey’s hay and my tack.” “Officer Krugle.” I rather rudely interrupted his probing about what else the boys liked to eat. I hadn’t meant to. It just slipped out the moment the thought hit me. “Sorry, but will you be able to bring over my saddle and bridle, or do you need me to go get them?” “Sure,” he said, which left me confused. He clarified. “I’ll bring your tack. Right now, it’s in my house, since I returned the buggy. I’ll be glad to get my couch back.” I thanked him and returned to Mrs. Penn. “Do you think Mr. Beanie might have some kind of tub for Frey’s water? The one I’m using now is too shallow. In fact, I need to go out and check on him and fill up the basin again.” Because I’d brought up Frey, the boys wanted to go out and see him. “Yes, but no more riding today.” When I explained that working with horses meant lots of baths, their smiles turned downward. “We only had to take a bath once a month,” Frances said. “Dad said baths weren’t good for our skin.” “But Mommy said that wasn’t true,” Carlo piped up. “Dad didn’t like that. He hit Mommy when she said that.” The little boy’s face paled. I see his mind running through the facts. I guessed even a four year old could start to see such associations. His face was reflecting that not only did he understand that his mommy was gone, but that his father had been the cause. “Yeah, we had to be careful. Dad got mad a lot. We couldn’t make noise either,” Frances said, as he stretched out his hand to place it on his brother’s shoulder. He seemed to realize that his little brother was pondering things that weren’t happy thoughts. I don’t think he knew quite how to pull his brother back to happiness. That would have been a tough goal for even the adults around him.
7.4 The Witchling Shama
I turned back to meet Mrs. Penn’s eyes. “I am sorry for my rudeness in coming downstairs barefoot, but my boots are filthy. I need to clean them.” She waved her hand in a manner that said it wasn’t important. “I’ll take you and the boys to the shoe shop tomorrow. We can get you some new ones.” “No. I can’t . . .” I said, as I took a seat in the spare chair. Mrs. Penn refilled her coffee, then offered me a cup. I shook my head, but Officer Krugle raised his cup for another round. “You will. No excuses. Frank will back me up on this. We can’t have you going about barefoot or in old, dirty boots.” I sighed, then drank half the water in my glass. “Thank you. I’d be happy to pay you back if there’s someone who needs a house cleaner or . . .” Mrs. Penn wagged her finger at me, as if I’d said a swear word or something. “Nonsense, your work is here. You can read, can’t you? You’ve had some schooling, right?” I nodded, embarrassed. I hadn’t finished, though. I’d left when I was ten to earn enough money to pay for food for myself and, then later, Frey, but I was lucky that Mr. Sullivan, the sheriff, had insisted I attend school with the other children in my earlier years. His firmness had apparently caused a rumpus in the village, because the others thought I should do chores during school hours so I could labor more hours to pay for my room and board. “Good, then you can do some instructing in your spare time,” Mrs. Penn said. “That should provide you with some additional wages that will allow you to buy incidentals. But the boots and your clothing will be paid for by the town’s orphanage endowment. As well as your food and the needs of your horse, because I’d already said that was part of the deal.” I’m afraid to say that my mouth was jaw dropping then. It was all too remarkable to believe. In fact, my good fortune left me breathless. “I will be happy to teach the boys, Mrs. Penn. You don’t have to pay me, and I can use Mrs. Smith’s teaching materials that I found up in the attic,” I told her with a big smile. She shook her head and one more wiggled her finger in the air, but she didn’t say anything more. We were busy eating the sandwiches she’d brought us. I’d pulled the meat out of mine and buried it under a heap of cabbage slaw. I wasn’t fond of that anyway. I disliked anything that had mayonnaise in it. Most people made the gooey stuff with raw eggs. Mrs. Bellows had gotten food poisoning from hers. My sandwich, which unfortunately had mayonnaise on the bread, was still plump with chunks of lettuce, a thick slab of cheese, and a couple of slices of tomato, so it was perfectly tasty despite the mayonnaise. I enjoyed the apple slices and carrot sticks, also, which were a real treat, because mostly, when I got them, they went to Frey. After the sandwich, there was even an oatmeal cookie. Wow! I savored mine, nibbling at the edges until every bit of it was gone. Then I wanted to lick my fingers, but, of course, I didn’t. Frances placed his sandwich down on the plate and leaned forward. “Really? Shama’s going to teach us to read? Mom started to do that, but Dad said it was a waste of money to buy books. Mom used to write the alphabet in the dirt, but we never learned all of it. Dad kept telling Mom it was time for her to do something whenever she sat down to teach us. Carlo doesn’t even know the first three letters, but I learned ten of them. Except the b and d. They’re really tough.” All the adults smiled. That was a story common to most children. I’d always thought it was poor planning on the part of the person who’d invented writing. I would have given those letters completely different characters, like an H with bars at the top and bottom or a W with a pole in the middle. But then, maybe the crossed H and the poled W might also cause a muddle of confusion. Anyway, I told Frances that I couldn’t wait to get started. “I love to read,” I said. “And soon, that will be you, too, having adventures in books. You get to go anywhere you like, even to fly like a bird, if you can find a book like that. And you want to know a secret? Once you learn your letters, you can even make up stories in your head and write them all down. I saw some paper in the attic. We can use that to make books! If that’s okay with Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle,” I added. “Definitely, but just for a while,” the woman told me. “Once the boys get caught up, then they can attend school with the other children. Well, Frances can. I’m afraid that Carlo is too young yet. But he can work with you during school hours.” I nodded, reminding myself that my new job would only be temporary. Our sandwiches had been chicken and we had fresh asparagus spears and apple slices as well as the carrots. Mrs. Penn said it had all come from the town’s restaurant. The boys didn’t seem to care. They probably didn’t know what a restaurant was. I’d never been to one, unless washing dishes in the back counted. “Can you cook?” Mrs. Penn asked me. I wasn’t a great cook. I’d never had much training, but the house mothers had shown me the basics so that I could help them out in the kitchen. In the last house, I’d cooked all of Mrs. White’s meals because she was always feeling poorly, although
7.3 The Witchling Shama
I just couldn’t bear to put the boots back on, not when I was clean and fashionably attired. The other option was to go downstairs barefoot. Would Mrs. Penn send me straight back to my room with a sharply worded rebuke for my impropriety? I glanced once more at the dirty and worn out boots that looked ready for the trash heap and shook my head. No matter the gamble, I just couldn’t put those shoes back on. Resolute, I corrected my posture, something the school principal had always harped on, and made my way down the stairs. I followed the sound of voices into the kitchen, where I found them sitting at the old oak table. Four heads swung around. Officer Krugle gasped. The boys’ eyes practically popped out of their eye sockets. Mrs. Penn merely smiled. “Mommy, you look beautiful,” Carlo said. Frances, who always corrected him when his little brother said that, didn’t utter a word. He was too busy doing a speechless jaw drop. “Thank you again, Mrs. Penn,” I said, sighing from the pleasure of wearing something new (and being clean.) “The dress fits perfectly, and I’ve never had anything so lovely. The trim around the collar and cuffs is marvelous. I would love to meet the person who embroidered the blue daisies. She’s an artist!” “It looks like it was made for you — both the color and design. And yes, Corinne is superb with her handwork. I shall introduce you to her. And I agree that everything about that dress is just right for you. Don’t you think so, Frank?” Officer Krugle had copied Frances’ jaw drop and the boy’s glazed look of astonishment, but he recovered when Mrs. Penn said that. He sighed inwardly, as if he’d just eaten a piece of chocolate and was recalling its deliciousness. “She looks marvelous,” he said, then reddened as if he shouldn’t have chosen that wording. “I mean it’s amazing that she cleaned up so well. Not a speck of dirt on her now.” It was a good save, but I could see that Mrs. Penn was chuckling over both his expression and his clarification.
7.2 The Witchling Shama
I found myself once more admiring the dress in the mirror. Mrs. Penn had found a dress that fit me perfectly. The hem reached clear down to my ankles, and the sleeves cupped at exactly the right spot at my wrists. The tiny blue daises around the collar and sleeves gave the dress a gentle touch, one most of the girls in my houses back in the village had never been lucky enough to have. Embroidery was something that cost extra, and my village hadn’t been known for its wealth, nor had parents been willing to add such frills to a dress, figuring it might make the girl overly proud or vain. But even if the girls had been given such a wondrous gift, I would never have been its recipient. When they outgrew it, they would have removed the collar and cuffs and transferred them to another dress. The dainty blue trim was that special. Besides, I’d never been given a new anything. Even my shoes were hand-me-downs. Speaking of shoes, I looked down at mine. They were serviceable boots, the leather aged and cracking, and right now they held layers of encrusted mud. The boots had once been my pride and joy because they were hard toed, which made them good for riding Frey. They’d been comfortable, too, when I’d purchased them, but I’d outgrown them a while back and hadn’t earned enough money to replace them. Maybe in this new town, I would find a job, something to pay for things like a new pair of boots, a currycomb, brush, some fly spray and some sweets for the little boys. But meanwhile, I was stuck with the overly tight boots. I’d need to get a rag to wipe them off. Some saddle soap would be good, too. I’d add that to my wish list of items to buy.