Sukey’s home was a wagon with a tent on the wagon box. She lit a taper with magick, as easy as kissing her own thumb.

“I don’t ha’ my mother’s talent, but I can do a thing or two,” she said.

By candlelight, Blanche could see Sukey better. She was beautiful, with rich black hair, a pert nose and freckles and light eyes that were improbable in her face—large and full of humour, at odds with her nose and mouth. She wore a fine kirtle with the skirts pulled high enough to show a fair amount of leg, and the front cut low enough to advertise her figure, which was as good as Blanche’s own.

The two women eyed each other.

“I think you’ll fit me to a T,” Sukey said. She opened a chest in the wagon box. “Red?”

“I daren’t,” Blanche said.

“Cap’n won’t care. It’s his favourite colour,” Sukey said.

“I serve the Queen,” Blanche said. “Red’s the King’s colour.”

“Oh, aye,” Sukey said, as if the notion had no interest for her. “A nice dark brown?”

She held up a kirtle with side lacing and a low neck.

Blanche whistled. “That’s fine cloth.”

“Aye, my mother made it for me in Morea,” Sukey said. She put her hands around Blanche’s waist. “Oh, you’re as little as me in the tummy. Take the brown—I never wear it. It makes me look poor. You ha’ the hair for it.”

She took down two shifts from a basket. “I can spare you two. I’ve no stockings—I’m barefoot myself until we reach Albinkirk.”

Blanche took the other woman and kissed her. “You’re a true friend.”

“Sister, women in this lot need to be friends.” Sukey laughed. “Besides, soon eno’ I’ll need favours of you.”

“Su-key!” came a roar, almost outside the wagon.

“Get a room!” came an angry call from the tent lines.

Blanche took her prize wardrobe and dropped off the wagon box to the ground. “Thanks!” she said.

“I’m right here, you great ox,” Sukey said.

“I brought you something,” Bad Tom said.

“A couple of your doxies to do my scut work?” Sukey shot back.

“Don’t be like that, woman,” he said.

Blanche covered her ears and giggled.

“Like what? Spiteful? Mad as a cat in water?” Sukey asked.

Tom laughed. “You’re jus’ play-acting.”

“Try me, Tom,” she said.

“You? Dare me?” Tom said, and roared his laugh.

Blanche lengthened her stride.

She ran far enough to escape the sounds, and stopped to catch her breath.

She’d come the wrong way—or perhaps not. As she spun, she gradually got her bearings—the captain’s banners, the pavilion, the cook fires near at hand.