Free Corbin's Fancy by Linda Lael Miller Page A

thinking what a truly good friend Phineas Pryor was turning out to be. Here was her chance to earn enough money to keep going until she could find more permanent circumstances. “How do you do, Mr. Stroble?”
    Stroble harumphed and it was clear that he did not quite approve of Fancy. Very likely, he was a farmer or businessman, rather than a showman, and thus inclined to look down on people, particularly women, who earned their livelihood in such an unconventional fashion. “Pryor tells me that you sing and dance.”
    Fancy neither sang nor danced, when she could get out of it. Her voice was true but rather thin, and her dancing was downright awkward. “I prefer to perform magic,” she said.
    “Good,” gruffed Mr. Stroble. “Country folks ain’t much for singin’ ‘less it’s gospel. Set up your tent, if you’ve got one, and you’ll get two dollars for the day.”
    Two dollars was a small fortune for a day’s work, and Fancy knew that if she performed well, she would earn that grand sum every day that the fair ran. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Do you have a tent?” demanded Phineas, the moment Stroble had marched away.
    Fancy was fitful. Suppose Hershel failed her again? Suppose the few tricks she knew fell flat? “Of course not!” she snapped, instantly regretting her sharpness.
    Phineas was not offended; indeed, he seemed to understand. “I’ve a small table in the wagon,” he soothed. “It has a canvas canopy—you can use that.”
    “Don’t you need it?” challenged Fancy.
    “Only use it when it rains,” disclaimed Mr. Pryor grandly. “I’ll get it for you.”
    It was while Phineas was dragging the table and canopy out of the wagon that Fancy noticed the alarming grayness of his skin, the faint blue tinge around his mouth. Without thinking, she caught his elbow in her hand and cried, “Phineas—are you ill?”
    He sighed, put one hand to his chest, and offered up a rather shaky smile. “On a grand day like this? Never!”
    Fancy was unconvinced, but she knew that further questions would be pointless. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she said softly. “I don’t know what I would have done—”
    Phineas smiled again and patted her upper arm. “You would have been just fine, Fancy. Just fine.”
    His use of her first name made her feel warm and sheltered, almost as though she belonged. She hummed as she made her way into a stand of fir trees, there to change into her star-spangled dress.
    *   *   *
    “She’s gone, then?” guessed Keith Corbin, watching his brother’s agitated pacing with mingled sympathy and delight.
    Jeff ran one hand through already-rumpled, wheat-colored hair. “Yes, damn it—rabbit and all!”
    “It’s your own fault, you know,” Keith observed cautiously, over the rim of his coffee cup. Standing at the sink, Alva flung him a red-rimmed look, while Jeff stopped pacing to glare.
    “I know that!” he bellowed.
    “So what are you going to do about it?”
    The answer to that was another glare. Jeff stormed out of the kitchen and the screened door of the sun porch slammed in the distance.
    “He loves Fancy,” the housekeeper mused, scouring a frying pan.
    “Yep,” confirmed Keith. Then he drained his coffee cup, set it aside with a thump, and went off to his study to outline next week’s sermon.
    *   *   *
    Fancy’s act was going very, very well. The crowd of spectators who were gathered before her borrowed table oohed and ahhed appreciatively as she made fire dance from the tips of her fingers, then clapped with delight when she caused a simple wand to bloom with colorful silk flowers.
    Confidently, she summoned a little, freckle-faced boy from the crowd and, with a proper flourish, drew a coin borrowed from Phineas from behind his right ear. The audience cheered and Fancy was so swept up in this success that she dared to produce the top hat, heretofore hidden beneath the table.
    “You see before you, ladies and gentlemen,” she sang out, “an