Free The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats

theft, and he will gibber in gratitude for his good name. It will be most embarrassing for him, with all of Caernarvon watching.
    I cannot wait.
    The awning is down, but the sign is different. It’s not the merchants’ ship. It’s a spool of thread and a needle. A tailor’s shop.
    I freeze in the gutter, my hem in the mud. I check and recheck. Yes, it’s the right stall, between the empty building and the house with faded crates full of dead herbs.
    An amiable redhead comes to the shop window-counter and asks if he can help me with something.
    â€œWh-where is the merchant?” I ask. “This used to be a merchant’s shop. Where is he?”
    The redhead shrugs. “Gone. One too many unlawful trades. The borough revoked his license. His loss is my gain, though.”
    I turn on my heel. Muddy road is flashing beneath my feet. My fists are stiff at my sides. I round the corner of Shire Hall and knee an illegally kept pig out of my path, then slam our gate hard enough to echo.
    I find my father in the hall and shout, “How could you?”
    My father looks up from a bowl of chestnuts, bewildered. “Do what, now?”
    â€œHe’s gone, he took it with him, and now I’ll never get it back, never, and it’s your fault, Papa. You’re the one who let him go, and I’ll never forgive you for it!”
    â€œSweeting, I—”
    â€œIt’s all I had left of them! Now I don’t even have that much! It’s gone forever, just like they are!”
    My father puts aside the bowl. “What are you on about?”
    â€œMy altar cloth,” I sob, and collapse in a weeping heap at his feet. It’s best that I’ll never see Alice and Agnes again, for they’ll never forgive me this.
    There’s a muffled groan, then a heavy shape sinks at my side and there’s a warm weight over my shoulders. My father has put his arm around me and I fall against him, hugging him and sobbing.
    â€œForgive me, sweeting,” he says, holding me tight. He smells like leather and dust. I sob harder and hide beneath his arm. “You can make another one, though. A better one.”
    Just because a thing is new doesn’t make it better.
    But I say naught and let him hug me, all pokes of leather and scratchy wool and strong embrace like city walls about my shoulders.
    Â 
    After Mass, Emmaline de Coucy invites me on an outing.
    She knows a little place where the river pools, where there’s shallow water for wading and a good grassy place for rest and food. She played there often as a child, pretending to be queen of the water sprites with her shift hiked up to her knees.
    Emmaline leans in close when she tells me this, glancing at her parents sidelong even though my father has snared them in a conversation they seem to be reluctantly tolerating.
    There’s nothing I want more than to sniff and tell her not for all the damask in Damascus would I pass one more moment in her wretched golden company than I’m forced to.
    But the air in the townhouse is like curdled cream and everything smells of sweat, and I’m ever so weary of the square of street that’s visible from the workroom window.
    So I agree. Emmaline squeals and claps her hands and bids me meet her by the gates as soon as I’m ready.
    Back home, Mistress Tipley is clarifying lanolin. There’s a massive fire in the rearyard and she’s leaning over a potbellied kettle. Her face is as red as the Adversary’s backside and she’s sweating fit to drown.
    I come into the rearyard to get my shoes from the stoop, and the old cow aims the stirring paddle at me.
    â€œHere, stir this. I must get more firewood, and the lanolin will burn if it’s not tended.”
    My father has gone to Watch and Ward. He’ll not be back till sundown. I breeze past her toward the greenway as if she’s speaking Welsh.
    Mistress Tipley hisses like a cat. “You don’t think to