Spindle(20)

Briar frowned as she fixed her threads. Maybe Henry was why she was out of sorts. The mill felt empty with him gone. His easy way, how he would swagger in and fix her frame, tapping that one corner as he said good-bye. She glanced at the corner and noticed an acorn sitting there. Where did that come from? She looked around but everyone else was busy at work.

She picked it up and examined it. A perfect acorn with a dark, variegated body and pale little cap like the ones she used as cups in her childhood fairy gardens. She smiled at the memory and placed the acorn in her pocket. Strange to find one sitting on her frame. She looked around again, expecting to see Henry jump out to surprise her, but he wasn’t there.





Chapter Ten



It didn’t take long for Briar to notice the big hole Henry Prince left behind. Aside from missing his mechanical skills with her spinning machine, the first time she walked the long road to the cottage by herself, she realized Henry was like the air—something you never really noticed because it was always there, but once it was gone, your chest felt like it was stuffed with cotton and left you struggling to breathe. She hadn’t felt this way since Da passed, and was surprised to feel it now about Henry. Each quiet walk home reminded her of all she missed about him.

Fortunately, the children were getting on well with Fanny, who by now had found the bunny and made a big deal about the boys taking care of it without any help from her, and that it’d better not get into her garden. Although Briar had already caught Fanny out back hand-feeding the cute thing a piece of lettuce.

Jack said he thought Fanny was made of magic because she seemed to be everywhere at once. “She can fly,” he said. “But not like a bird. She makes herself really tiny and then she can spy on us. That’s how she found the bunny.”

Briar laughed at how serious Jack was about his imagined theory. She was glad Fanny was keeping them on their toes. It helped ease her mind that the children were well cared for. It was never easy to leave them for the week.

As Briar turned the bend on her narrow path from the cottage back to the country road into town, there was a sudden change in humidity. A mist was creeping in, settling into the valley. The thick fog sent tendrils her way, wrapping around her ankles, penetrating to the bone, and pulling her faster into town.

It reminded her of the story Mam used to tell about the potato famine.

Late at night by the light of the fire, Mam would draw a wool blanket around her shoulders, get a far-off look in her eye, and begin the tale: “In the wee hours of the morn, a mist rose out of the sea and spread its spindly fingers across the land. It stayed for three days, thick as pease soup. A cry was heard across the moors that none could track as it came in all directions. A mournful sound. Then finally, when the mist lifted, we could see the tops of our potato plants and the blackness of blight that would change our lives forever.”

Every time a fog seeped into the valley, Mam would stand in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes observant, watching. Listening. It unnerved Briar as a child, and even now she shivered with the thought and picked up her pace. She had a need to get off this empty stretch of road and catch up to others headed into town.

With each step, the fog grew thicker and thicker, becoming so dense Briar could only see inches in front of her. It was an odd feeling of white-blindness, viewing only her scuffed boots and a bit of the dirt path a foot in front. She was so busy watching her feet that when she did meet up with another person, she was practically on top of him. The only warning she’d had was a jingle of the harness on the peddler’s poor donkey.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Briar, covering up her startled fright. “This fog makes it hard to see. I’m farther ahead than I thought if I’ve joined up the main road.”

The peddler wore layers of rags with an odd assortment of accoutrements tied to his person. A scruffy beard, a too-floppy hat, and a cane completed his look. At his side, a sorry-looking donkey pulled an even sorrier-looking covered cart behind them.

If he at least had a donkey, he must have good things to trade. Out of curiosity, she examined the bundles hanging off the sides of the cart as she drew nearer. Saucepans, tin cups, a sewing machine, a hatchet, a birdcage, a dress form, a croquet mallet.

He saw her interest and stopped the donkey. “Whoa there,” came the thin voice.

“Nay, sir,” she called out, hurriedly. There was no point wasting his time. “I’ve no money to spend today.” She smiled. “Thanks for pretending I did, though.”

She glanced at her dirty hands and patched skirt. A good scrubbing hadn’t gotten the oil out from under her fingernails, nor from the hem of her dress that dragged on the dirty spinning room floor when she bent down to reset the builder on the frames.

“You have no news to trade, then?” he asked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to these parts. Would like to know what’s what before I get to town.”

“Don’t know that I have news, either,” she said. “Is there anything in particular you want to know?”

“The Prince family still in residence?”

She smiled. “Always.” She thought of the youngest Prince and her smile dimmed. I wonder where Henry is right now. Did he make it across the Atlantic already, or did his ship get caught in a storm? He’s been gone several weeks; a letter should have arrived by now.

The peddler nodded. “Just as I would have it.”