Some of the customers were bad-tempered and seemed to expect the impossible in the way of service. One woman, I should really call her a lady because she lived in one of the more suburban quarters, who was quite hale and hearty enough to run her own errands, called out from her steps as we delivered the faggots and asked us to go to the nearest vendor and get some sewing silks for her. Jode sent me and as soon as

I was back she tweeted, “Oh, I am sorry”—looking synthetic languishment at me as if her sweetness could make up for anything—“I forgot to send you for some needles at the same time.” I smiled back like a dazzled young lad, it seemed only polite as she was so certain I was a dazzled young lad, and once more ran off. Later Jode told me that it would be bearable occasionally, but she always takes advantage of the delivery boys in this way and never tips them—never tips them money, that is, only a silly smile.

But other customers were kind. One gave me a hot new bun, which when the door was closed Jode promptly annexed.

For the noon meal we went back to the merchant’s and were given sandwiches and mulled wine in the kitchen. Then we set out with a new load.

The air stung on our bare faces. Our breath became intricately wreathing blue veils before us.