She took one of her silver coins to the cobbler and bought good boots: deerskin, double stitched and sturdy. She took a second coin and bought a haversack from the tanner, who took her money but spat on the doorstep as she left. She took the third to the butcher to buy jerky, but he would not trade with her at all. She took the last coin to Niki’s bakery to buy hardtack, but by then the light was sinking and the bakery was dark and shut. She went back to where the splintered heap of the stall lay like a dead horse among the puddles of the market square.
Plain Kate packed her best tools in their felt pouches; she packed her one pan; she packed her two striped smocks and extra socks. She coiled her fishing line and twine. She came to her parents’ marriage quilt. It had once smelled of her father, and though it now smelled of sawdust and cats, she remembered how that smell had wrapped her, her first night in the drawer. But she needed a coat, and the quilt was too big. She was practical. She sliced it in half. She cut a hole for her head, pulled it on over her wet hair, and belted it with a bit of rope. The other half lay on the cobbles, soaking up rainwater.
She picked up the piece of the wreckage with the carved stag on it. It was too heavy to take. It served no purpose. She set it back down. It seemed to blur and leap in the half light, and it took Kate a moment to realize that her eyes were tearing. She picked the stag back up. She put it back down.
Taggle was sitting on top of the heaped wood, watching her.“I’ll leave it,” she told him. “I don’t need it.“ Her eyes stung as she said it. She dashed her hand across them, disgusted with herself. The cat chirruped inquiringly. “It’s nothing,” she told him, her throat angry and aching with the effort of not crying. Decisively, she took the carving knife her father had given her—the knife her hand had grown up knowing, the knife that had shaped her—and thrust it into the sheath in her new boot.
“Now we can travel,” she told Taggle. She sat down on her makeshift workbench. “I couldn’t go without my knife. Though I don’t suppose I’ll find much work, living wild.” The wet evening was sinking into darkness. The cat hopped down and ambled over to sniff her ankles.
“What about you?” she asked, lifting him into her lap. “A dog would come without question—but I suppose a cat must make his own choices.” It was foolish to talk to no one, and she stopped. And so she left unspoken her deepest wish: that she did have someone to talk to, that she didn’t have to go alone.
¶
Deep in the night, Plain Kate went down to the river. She carried her haversack on one hip and Taggle in her arms. No cat would follow a wanderer; she realized that now. But she was not ready to give him up, to leave him as she had left the carved deer from her father’s stall, propped up against her workbench in the abandoned square. Not yet; not quite yet. And maybe he would follow her, a little way.
Away from the cressets of the market, under the lid of clouds, it was very dark—and very quiet. She heard the throaty murmur of the river, the plop of a jumping fish. Behind her, someone pulled a shutter. Across the river, a fox barked.
Linay was sitting quietly, watching the black gleam of the river, dangling his legs off the dock like a child. A pierce-work tin lantern sat on the dock beside him, and in its feeble light he looked pale as a moth in the deep of the night. He was eating a meat pie. As Plain Kate came up he held a second pie out to her. She ignored it. He shrugged, licked the gravy from his dagger, and set the pie on the wet wood at her feet.
Taggle’s nose started twitching.
Plain Kate stood over Linay. Taggle had begun twisting in her hands like a strong fish—a fish who wanted meat pie. She would have to put him down soon. “Now what?” she asked.
“Blood,” Linay said. Kate drew back and he laughed. “Oh, mine, Little Knife, don’t worry.”
“Kind,” she said, trying to mock, though her voice felt high and tight. Linay’s dagger looked as if it could gut a deer.
“Blood draws things. And it would be foolish to draw your own shadow to you.” He hesitated a bare second, then picked up his dagger, flipped it round, and drew it fearlessly across his wrist. His white face didn’t flicker, but Plain Kate winced for him as blood welled. Taggle gave a strangledcough, as if she were squeezing him too hard.
Linay leaned over and opened the lantern’s top. He let the blood dribble onto the flame. Plain Kate braced herself for darkness, but instead of dousing the flame, the blood caught fire, burning like oil, brightening the night.
“What—” she started to ask.
“Fire to set loose the spell,” he said absently, watching his blood catch. “You’d be surprised, the things a witch can make burn.”
His absentness and the way the blood ran with flame made the night suddenly eerie. Taggle hissed and Kate backed away.
“Where are you going?” said Linay.
Plain Kate began to babble something—but Linay had risen to his feet silently as a wave. His hand flashed, his wrist flicked. Blood flew and fell over Kate like a net. She leapt back shouting, and Taggle spilled from her arms and howled like a dying thing. Then the air turned to glass.
“Stay,” said Linay, soft, coaxing, into the sudden silence.
Kate couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Taggle lay belly-flat as if his back was broken.
Linay looked at her with his head tilted, smiling softly as a father smiles at a sleeping child.
Plain Kate thought she was dying and that when she died she would remain as a statue, held in place by the stiffness of the air. Linay reached out a hand for her. She was sure she would die when he touched her but she could only watch his hand coming.
And he touched her.
The air was air again. Kate staggered and crashed to the dock. The world spun and sparks shot through her vision. Linay loomed over her, dim and white as a pillar.
“Well,” said the witch. “That’s that.”
“What—” Kate gasped. She coughed, blinked. Taggle shook his head hard.
“I have left your goods at the third big stone around the bend of the road.”
“But—” Kate couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even see him. He was a sort of white shadow above her. She lay panting on the wet wood, her hair hanging over the dock edge, down toward the river.
He looked down at her, his face fuzzy—she thought he looked genuinely sad. “The loss of a shadow is a slow thing,” he said. “You will have a little time before someone notices. Find a place to belong before that happens.” Then he sang:
Go fast, Plain Kate, and travel light
Learn to walk the shadowy night
Without a shadow, flee from light
Become a shadow, truly
He crouched down beside her.“Will you come with me to the stone city?”
“No.” She could hardly get the word out.
“No,” he echoed. “But I will see you again, I think.” He looked over at Taggle. “The pair of you.” And he rose and went, leaving her lying helplessly in the dark, beside the water.
It was a long time before she could sit up, before Taggle could gather himself enough to resume sniffing around the meat pie. Plain Kate leaned forward and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyelids until she saw spots. Something had been taken from her, and though it was supposed to be her shadow, she felt as if it might have been her soul.“What did I do?” she muttered.
Over by the meat pie, Taggle gave a hiss and a hair-ball cough. Plain Kate opened her eyes.“Mussssssicians,” the cat spat. “Do you know what fiddle strings are made of? Bah! I’m glad he’s gone. Let’s eat.”
four
the roamers
Plain Kate scooched back and stared.“Taggle!”
Taggle was absorbed in the meat pie.“It’s covered inbread,” he huffed. “What fool has coveredmeat withbread?” He batted at the crust, then sprang back as it broke, and began licking gravy off his paw. “Ooooo,” he purred. “Ooooo, good.”