“The day after we married your parents—I remember you sayin’ a couple came in with the bride so sloshy she could hardly stand. Can you remember anything about them?” Mosca bit her lip. “I s’pose you’d need to check the register . . .”

“’Course I wouldn’t!” The Cakes was so surprised by the suggestion that she turned to Mosca and quite forgot to mutter. “I could tell you every name on that register for every day this month, right here and now in my clogs. And I remember that day because I was merry as a cricket because . . . oh, you know why. There was a bride that had been making good cheer, and had to be propped up every step by her sweetheart—he had to guide her hand across the register to draw her ‘X’ as well, but that often happens, you know. They took a room for the night, and must have left next morning while I was out at market.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?” Mosca had trouble keeping the excitement out of her voice.

“Don’t recall seeing much of her face—she had her bonnet pushed forward onto her forehead. Not a lady. Sunburned and doughty. She had on a yellow stuff gown, I can tell you that much. And a cream-colored casaque over the top, with blue woolen embroidery at the collar and cuffs, all done like daisies. Oh—and I do remember that she had a little bulging bone under the skin just here.” The Cakes tapped the side of her wrist. “I remember feeling sorry for her, thinking maybe she drank a lot out of loneliness, and maybe she fell over and broke her wrist that way. So I was pleased for her, imagining her waking up the next morning, and finding herself married.” The Cakes beamed.

“What about the feller—do you remember him?”

The Cakes frowned, and shrugged a little.

“Too good for her, I remember thinking. Trim, with a gentlemanly way, and a nice silk stock collar. I remember the name, because it was a queer one. Duplimore Gweed.”

“Duplimore?” Mosca crinkled her forehead.

“Looked it up afterward.” The Cakes looked pleased, like a fisherman describing a rare catch. “It’s sacred to Goodlady Judin of the Borrowed Face—if a babe’s born while the sun’s coming up for Goodman Grayglory’s day, it’s a child of Judin.”

“Cakes,” Mosca said in a small, quiet voice, “you wouldn’t get anybody named Duplimore.”

“Not often, no. I mean, what’s the odds of being born just at sun-wake on that particular day?”