“Tasty, ain’t it?” Sheemie asked. “Tasty as a pasty, ain’t it, good old Miguel, been here a thousand years?”

Miguel, still sucking his thumb, favored Sheemie with a sour look. “Andale. Andale, simplon.”

Sheemie led his mule around the house to the kitchen. Here the breeze off the ocean was sharp and shiversome. He waved to the women in the kitchen, but not a one waved back; likely they didn’t even see him. A pot boiled on every trink of the enormous stove, and the women—working in loose long-sleeved cotton garments like shifts and wearing their hair tied up in brightly colored clouts—moved about like phantoms glimpsed in fog.

Sheemie took first one barrel from Capi’s back, then the other. Grunting, he carried them to the huge oak tank by the back door. He opened the tank’s lid, bent over it, and then backed away from the eye-wateringly strong smell of elderly graf.

“Whew!” he said, hoisting the first barrel. “Ye could get drunk just on the smell o’ that lot!”

He emptied in the fresh graf, careful not to spill. When he was finished, the tank was pretty well topped up. That was good, for on Reaping Night, apple-beer would flow out of the kitchen taps like water.

He slipped the empty barrels into their carriers, looked into the kitchen once more to be sure he wasn’t being observed (he wasn’t; Coral’s simple-minded tavern-boy was the last thing on anyone’s minds that morning), and then led Capi not back the way they’d come but along a path which led to Seafront’s storage sheds.

There were three of them in a row, each with its own red-handed stuffy-guy sitting in front. The guys appeared to be watching Sheemie, and that gave him the shivers. Then he remembered his trip to crazy old bitch-lady Rhea’s house. She had been scary. These were just old duds stuffed full of straw.

“Susan?” he called, low. “Are ye here?”

The door of the center shed was ajar. Now it trundled open a little. “Come in!” she called, also low. “Bring the mule! Hurry!”

He led Capi into a shed which smelled of straw and beans and tack... and something else. Something sharper. Fireworks, he thought. Shooting-powder, too.

Susan, who had spent the morning enduring final fittings, was dressed in a thin silk wrapper and large leather boots. Her hair was done up in curling papers of bright blue and red.

Sheemie tittered. “You look quite amusing, Susan, daughter of Pat. Quite a chuckle for me, I think.”

“Yes, I’m a picture for an artist to paint, all right,” Susan said, looking distracted. “We have to hurry. I have twenty minutes before I’m missed. I’ll be missed before, if that randy old goat is looking for me... let’s be quick!”