Outrun the Moon(67)

“We’re ready to start ‘borrowing’ whenever you are,” says Katie.

Harry shivers and crosses her arms tightly. Her sleeve buttons are missing, exposing arms covered in itchy leech welts, and her spectacles hang crookedly on her nose. Maybe taking her isn’t such a great idea. There’s a rawness about Harry lately that makes me want to protect her, like a turtle whose shell is still soft. But wherever Katie goes, Harry goes.

“The two of you should stay here,” I tell them. “We need someone in charge of the ground troops. Someone to make sure the firewood gets collected. We need to invite guests and spruce up the place.”

Katie wrinkles her nose. “We could put Georgina in charge of that.”

I catch Francesca’s eye and give her a meaningful look. It doesn’t take her long to catch on. “But Georgina doesn’t know the first thing about milking a cow,” she says in her calm way. “And ours looks like she could use some more relief.”

Katie looks in the direction of the cypress tree, where Minnie Mae is trying to feed the cow some long grass. “I nearly forgot about Forgivus! The more you milk a cow, the more it gives, you know. Cows are nice that way.”

Forgivus? I suppose it’s as good a name as any.

“Maybe we had better stay. Are you sure you don’t need us?”

“We’ll manage,” I assure her. “We’ll be less conspicuous if there are only two of us, anyway.”

“Okay, then, good luck.” They make their way back to the twin fires.

“I need to throw the leeches in the river,” I tell Francesca.

She makes a face. “And I need to borrow Headmistress Crouch’s hat. We might need a cupboard for the goods.”



Fresh wounds plague the street with the delicatessen where we first found the sassafras: A felled tree, tipped-over streetlamps, and a mountain of bricks spill into the street. The tiger and the dragon must have returned here, and traffic has ceased completely. We pick our way through the rubble.

The deli is still standing, though the broken bottles in front of the shop have been swept to the side. Francesca eyes a broom leaning against the outer wall. “Someone tried to clean up.”

“They must have realized it’s a losing battle.” Inside, the place looks even messier than before. The green awning has fallen completely, hiding the door like a giant fig leaf.

“Maybe they’ll be back.”

“Well, let’s not waste time.” I quickly glance around before ducking in, sweeping my gaze over every dark corner and hidey-hole. The place seems deserted.

A moment later, Francesca follows.

The reek of sour wine mingles with the woody scent of sawdust. We stick to the front should the ceiling begin to collapse like last time. I stop at a barrel full of salami and hard cheeses while Francesca rummages through a basket filled with picnic linens and packaged herbs.

“Take the salamis from Abbiati. The Abbascia is too peppery.”

I have to squint to make out the fine writing along the salami wrappings. They look exactly the same minus a few letters. “Does it really matter?”

She gives me a hard look. I manage to find two Abbiati salamis and stuff one up each sleeve. This will impede movement, but as long as I remember to hold my sleeves, I can keep them from shooting out. Into my boots, I slip wooden spoons. I hide two oranges, well, in the most logical place to put two oranges. No one will be the wiser. Last, I jam two packets of cheese into my pants pockets.

Francesca removes her hat and places a bag of pasta on top of her head, plus a round container of crackers that fits in the bowl of the hat perfectly. She pulls the hat down to cover her ears. The pockets of her dress outsize my pants pockets, and she is able to stuff in several packages of dried red discs she says are tomatoes.

Weighing a few pounds heavier than when we came in, I ask, “You ready?”

Francesca tucks in the strings of her bag of pasta, which are dripping onto her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Do you have room for this cinnamon?”

“If it’s small enough, I might be able to slip it in my sock.”

Carefully, without upsetting her hat, she crouches, tucking the slim packet of cinnamon sticks into my sock. She rises just as slowly. I frown at the bag of pasta creeping over her forehead, while she eyes my new chest.

“I never felt so womanly in my life,” I say.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Don’t make me laugh. Your pasta’s showing.”

“Oh!” With one hand clasped to her hat, she points to a spot high on the shelf. A hairline fracture jags along the wall, and my heart clutches, wondering if the ceiling is about to fall.

“Did you hear something?”

“No. It’s dried porcini—my favorite kind of mushroom!”

I peer up at the sack, which is the size of a loaf of bread.

“I can’t reach it. I need a stool.” Her gaze sweeps around the room, landing on a barrel.

“Er, I love a good mushroom, but where are you going to put that?”

“I don’t know, but I must have it. These are the best porcinis, from Parma. They’re heaven on the tongue.” Her eyes gleam, and you’d think that sack contained a pound of jade by the way she was looking at it. She takes off her hat and tries to push the barrel, but it’s heavy and smashed in on one side.