Free The Stolen One by Suzanne Crowley Page A

turned to Mrs. Salinas. “And which way is Cheapside, may I inquire?” I had no intention of honoring Grace’s request.
    “But you won’t be buying any tortoise combs or pearled cauls, now will you? No money is my guess.”
    “Perhaps not right away,” I said, wondering what gave us away. “It’s food we are more in need of, my dear Anna and I. Can you recommend a respectable establishment?”
    “Not for the likes of the two of you,” she said, looking us over from head to toe. I was highly offended, but she added, “You’d be quick pickin’s anywhere around here, and all of London, I must say. What were you thinking, bringing such a tender thing, your sister, and you yourself, fresh scrubbed from the country?”
    “She’s my maid,” I insisted. “Not my sister,” I said, turning my head away from Anna so she wouldn’t see my words.
    “You can’t pull anything over me,” she responded. “I’ve seen everything in my life, and I know when something is not what it is. You two have been raised together, sister or no. And you have some resemblance, I believe. Come with me, before the pickpockets and miscreants get you. I’ll give you a hearty meal before you go on.” She started to walk away. We stood there, rooted.
    A man stumbled up to us, dirty and reeking of sour ale and worse. “Why, look what the country wagon just delivered us. Two sweet gillyflowers!” He lurched for Anna. We picked up our bags and ran after the lady, who had not even looked back.
     
    We followed her down one street after another. She kept her back straight as a tombstone, every now and then glancing at us and tilting her head for us to hurry. I stumbled a few times, my head turned this way and that looking at the spectacle of people and animals, taking in the sounds and smells, good and bad. Anna kept her head down, overwhelmed, it seemed, with her surroundings.
    Finally we reached a timber-framed home among a row of like-looking houses. Mrs. Salinas tapped at the heavy wooden door, and not long after, it opened. Amob-capped maid curtsied, and our lady pushed past her breezily. We followed her in.
    “A cold meal, please, Maisy,” she said, taking her gloves off and handing them to her. The maid peered at us with big eyes, bowed, and left the room.
    We were in a keeping room, austere but finely furnished with carved mahogany chairs, a long trestle table, and even a gorgeous handwoven tapestry hung along a long wall. I stared at it, looking at the figures prancing in an orchard grove. I stepped closer to examine it, for I had long heard of tapestries, but had never actually beheld one. I ran my hand over it, feeling the woolen warp and weft and imagined what kind of hands might produce such beauty.
    I heard something in the corner of the room. A little dark-headed boy with piercing blue eyes was sitting very quietly on a chair. He couldn’t have been more than four or five.
    “It represents the harvest season,” Mrs. Salinas said, and I startled. “Fall.” I looked back at the tapestry, looked at the beautiful dancers beneath the trees, looked for Christian. Fa! As if he was there.
    “Sit down, girls, you must be exhausted.” Mrs. Salinas said.
    “No, thank you,” I began. “I feel as though I’ve been sitting forever. My bum is as flat as a potato cake.” Maisy, who had returned to the room as quiet as a dormouse, stifled a giggle. And then Anna suddenly lurched forward as though she were about to fall. I ran to her and helped her into a chair at the table. She slumped over, her hands on her ears.
    “My word,” Mrs. Salinas exclaimed. “Ava!” she screamed. “Bring some ale!”
    I stroked Anna’s back softly. “It’s her ears. They give her much pain.” I felt strangely at ease telling the lady one of our secrets. “She needs to lie down, flat. She feels as though the world is turning.” Anna moaned, and started to rock. “Can we lay her down somewhere?”
    “Of course,” the lady said. We each took