At this, a loud Ha! burst from Clo. Living in a great house? Painting lords and ladies? “That’s definitely not my father,” she said, her voice firm and certain. She rocked back on her heels to gaze directly at the boy. The swineherd waited a moment, watching, but she shook her head. “Stories. Only stories.”
“Lot o’ stories. In th’ stables, there’s no muck to shovel without th’ pigs to make it.” But shrugging, the boy turned to go.
Kneeling again over the package, Clo tugged violently at the wool; the knots would not come free.
“Wait!” she called after the boy.
He kept walking.
“Wait!” Clo darted after him into the field.
“An’ wot, then?” He stopped, turning. “An’ wot?”
She could not look at the boy. “My father—was he all right? Was he hurt?”
“He was hidin’ in th’ pens. I’d not call that right.”
Clo hesitated. “Do you know… where is he now?”
The boy glanced down at the wilted plants in his hand. “N-no.” He shrugged and looked away uncomfortably. “But I’m sure he’s gone on. I’m sure th’art to go on.” Gesturing to the parcel, he turned again to go.
“Wait—just one more thing.”
“I’ve no time t’ wait.” The boy turned so he was walking backward. “Wot? Wot?”
“What’s a Haros? Do you know what a Haros is? A town? A person? It was in the letter.”
The swineherd shook his head. “I’ve heard of no such things.”
“Well, what’s a harbor, then? Do you know?”
“Tha canst read, but tha hast no idea o’ harbor?” Still walking backward, nearly tripping, the boy doubled over laughing. “And tha thinks me ignorant. All here knows th’ harbor. Th’ harbor? Th’ sea? Th’ water that’s full o’ salt and has no edge?”
Clo shook her head.
The boy frowned and waved at the woods before turning away. “A day’s walk through th’ woods,” he called over his shoulder. “An’ tha’ll smell’t afore sightin’ it.”
Clo watched the swineherd stride across the darkening fields. In all her travels, in all the mountains and valleys and highlands and lowlands she had ever crossed, never, never had she seen a water that was full of salt and had no edge. Clo, wall-jumper, turnip-eater, letter-reader, felt her world shift to include the idea of sea.
It felt as large and deep and dark as the word alone.
CHAPTER THE THIRD
PERTAINING TO THE UNWRAPPING OF A STINKY CHEESE
FOR A LITTLE WHILE, AFTER THE MUCK-COVERED SWINEHERD had disappeared, Clo continued to sit under the pine. She read and reread the ink-splattered letter and worked despairingly at the woolen knots on her father’s parcel while night thickened around her.
She turned the word sea over and over in her mouth.
She thought of returning to the town and finding her way to the barns and the swine among whom her father was said to have crouched, or of sleeping there, at the edge of the forest, and seeing what morning might bring. But the urgency of her father’s note—its hasty scrawl, its ink splatters—and the story of the cook, the worry that her father might have been recognized, compelled her to go.
A day’s walk through the woods. A night’s walk?
She would go to the harbor. The sea. If there was nothing there—no Haros, whatever that might be—if she could not find her father, she would return. It was a day.
She gathered her belongings and entered the dark of the woods.
Under a thick slice of moon, the forest was more gray than black—shades of darkness that suggested rather than defined forms. Clo followed the space in the darkness, the gray ruts of the wagon path, easily enough. The words of the swineherd, crouchin’ in th’ pens, hurried her along.
Another girl—wall-climber or no—or another boy—turnip-picker or no—really, most any inhabitant of the town might find the night of the forest too dark to enter. Too full of the shufflings of unseen creatures and windshook leaves. Too full of teeth and claws—of wolf, of bear, of bands of thieves. But Clo, wall-jumper, turnip-bearer, letter-reader, was not scared of the dark. Not truly. She had spent too many nights under the stars on her journeys with her father. The dry rustlings of the forest, even those of wolves and bears, had ceased to startle her long ago.
And the rustlings of thieves? Thieves with flashing teeth and flashing nails and flashing silver blades? Clo had journeyed too long and to too many distant lands with a thief really to be frightened of them.
Her father was not, Clo knew, of the knife-wielding brand of thieves. He did not crouch in the shadows and take poor travelers unawares. He did not threaten violence, frighten the innocent, terrorize the populace. He took only from those who had much… and most never noticed their loss.
Who would miss a pocket’s worth of pastries? A sausage link from the smokehouse? A sack of grain from the storerooms? Who would begrudge a father and his daughter a meal? Even a half dozen meals?
Who would notice the loss of an obsolete almanac or a well-thumbed primer? A chronicle left collecting dust? Who would berate a father for wanting to give his child some schooling?
Who would mind that he led away the oldest or lamest or stubbornest ass in the barns? No one would be sad to see those querulous beasts gone.
Of course, that wasn’t all…
Clo frowned and touched the cloak-wrapped package she was carrying. His thievery was not always so trifling. He always took one. At least one. A canvas. Some painted thing he found. Some piece of art he could sell. He could not help himself.
Clo tried to push away her misgivings. His work otherwise was honest. True. Above suspicion. A humble cleaner with his brushes and pots, an unassuming servant who kept to himself in the corners.
She thought of how he would present himself at the manor house whenever they arrived in a new village. At your service, he’d announce, bowing as deep as his crooked body would allow. Restorer of all decorative arts. He’d sweep his hat over the stones. Servile. Unassuming. For your lords and ladies, I can remove the dirt, the grime, the grease, the dust, the ash, the soot. I can erase cooksmoke and water stain, mildew spot and errant smudge; I can repair the yellowing of whites, the fading of pinks, the crackling of age. The smears along the ceiling frescoes, the tarnish on the gilded platters, the graying hues of family portraits—all can be made fair and bright and new.
Yes, honest night work, Clo thought, feeling the cloaked package in the dark again. Mostly honest, careful, modest work by candlelight. While the masters and servants of the house slept, he’d remove the grime that collected over years and years by wiping bread or potatoes across the painted surfaces, gently, painstakingly cleaning every detail. Or sometimes he’d mix a bit of color—steeping the woad leaves and madder roots that she grew for him in her garden or grinding a bit of lime or charcoal—and dab where paint had flaked away. “Honest night work,” she said quietly into the dark. Honest gardening. She was proud of the plants she grew.
They were not really thieves.
All about her, the woods were silent. The path opened in gray space ahead of her.