Jem nodded again, listening intently.
“So, that’s sort of what it’s like for me to be ordained. Folk will know that I’m … a sort of leader. Being ordained is—my sword, in a way.” And with luck, they might pay attention to what I tell them, now and then …
“Ohh …” Jem said, understanding dawning. “I see.”
“Good.” He wanted to pat Jem on the head, but instead shook his hand briefly and squeezed it, then rose. “I’ll need to be off now, but I’ll be back by suppertime.”
The smell of gumbo full of shrimp and oysters and sausage was seeping out of the printshop, oddly mixed with the smells of ink and metal, but enough to stir the gastric juices nonetheless.
“Dad?” Jem said, and Roger turned to look over his shoulder.
“Aye?”
“I think they should give you a real sword. You might need one.”
71
Rolling Heads
THEY’D FINISHED THE MOST urgent printing jobs and got everyone fed lunch—Germain and Jem had come back from their rounds with two loaves of day-old bread from the bakery and a bowl of shrimp fricassee from Mrs. Wharton’s ordinary.
“Mrs. Wharton says she wants the bowl back, Mam,” Germain said, conscious of his dignity and responsibilities as a bearer of the printed word.
“I’m thinking we’ll have melon tonight—they’re in season—and if they’re good, I’ll buy an extra one for ye to take back to her wi’ her bowl,” Marsali assured him. “Now—the wee yins have just been fed; they’ll sleep for an hour or two. You and Jem look after Mandy while we do the marketing, and I’ll make ye bridies for your supper.”
Mandy was miffed at not being allowed to go to the market with the Big Girls, but was substantially mollified by being given her own composing stick and a bag of type with which to spell out words, along with the assurance that Auntie Marsali would print whatever she made up onto a sheet of paper that she could keep.
“And if either of you try to get her to spell bad words, I’ll tell both your fathers and you won’t sit down for a week,” Brianna said to Jem and Germain. Germain looked piously offended at the notion. Jem didn’t bother, merely raising his brows at his mother.
“She knows every bad word I do already,” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t she ken how to spell them right?”
Familiar with Jem’s techniques, she refused to be drawn into philosophical discussion, and instead patted him on the head.
“Just don’t give her any ideas.”
“FISH LAST,” MARSALI said as they made their way down toward the seafront. “Vegetables and fruit usually come in early in the morning, so we’ll have to take what we can get at this time o’ day—but fish dinna keep the same hours as farmers do, so boats come in anytime they’ve got a decent catch, and our chances are still good. Besides, we dinna want to carry fish longer than we have to, not in this weather.”
Fergus had brought home a sack of potatoes and a braid of onions before breakfast, these taken in payment from some of his customers. Beans and rice were kept in large quantities in the pantry. For now, they meant to scavenge the produce markets for whatever fresh stuff was available, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine while doing so.
Late in the day as it was, the market was still busy, but not thronged as it likely had been at dawn. They made their way through stalls and wagons and the cries of vendors trying to get rid of the last of their wares and go home, sniffing the mingled scents of sun-warmed flowers, garlic, summer squash, and fresh corn in the ear.
“What are ye askin’ for your okra?” Marsali inquired of one young gentleman, fresh off the farm, judging from his smock and apron.
“A penny a bunch,” he replied, scooping up a bunch tied with string and holding it under her nose. “Picked fresh this morning!”
“And rode here under a load of potatoes, from the looks of them,” Marsali said, poking critically at a bruised green object. “Still, they’d make gumbo … Tell ye what, I’ll take three for a penny, and ye’ll be on your way home the sooner.”
“Three for a penny, she says!” The young farmer reeled, the back of his hand pressed dramatically to his forehead. “Madam, would you see me ruined?”
“It’s your choice, no?” Marsali said, clearly enjoying the show. “It’s one more penny than ye’ll get if ye dinna sell it at all, and I dinna think ye will, sae bashed as it is.”