Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,102
tightly as she could without crushing his little fingers. At the weaponry stall his eyes grew round at the basket-hilted swords, the studded targes, and the slender dirks. She was glad his hands were occupied, lest he touch one of the sharp blades and cut himself. “Might we look at the saddlery next?” she asked, deciding leather was a safer choice than steel.
His interest in saddles and harnesses quickly waned until she reminded him that such things were used on horses. “And they have those for sale here too.”
“Och! Can we leuk?”
Down Water Row they went, the street almost unrecognizable with so many merchants selling their goods. At Shaw’s Close the wooden stalls gave way to horses, cattle, and sheep with all the neighing, lowing, and bleating a boy could hope for. “Watch where you step,” Elisabeth warned him, clutching her skirts in one hand.
Peter touched each animal that would let him near, marveling at the velvety sleekness of the horses, the large eyes blinking at him as he studied the cows, the thick, off-white wool of the sheep.
“They’re Cheviots,” Elisabeth told him, recognizing their broad, white faces. “A fine breed for weaving.”
The barrel-chested seller lifted his eyebrows appreciatively. “You know something of sheep breeding, madam?”
“My father was a weaver,” Elisabeth explained, “and very particular about his wool.”
“The fleece of a Cheviot is superior for plaids,” he agreed, “though the Dartmoor and Leicester breeds have much to recommend them.”
As he waxed on about the merits of one breed compared to another, Elisabeth nodded politely, all the while looking for a graceful means of escape. Only then did she realize Peter’s hand was no longer in hers. She quickly spun round. “Peter?”
Though a few heads turned, none of them belonged to a little red-haired boy.
“Peter?” She cried louder this time, trying to lift her voice above the din. “Peter Dalgliesh!”
But his cheerful little voice did not respond.
Her heart beginning to pound, Elisabeth started toward the East Port, thinking he might have been drawn to the ringing anvils and glowing forges farther down Water Row. She ignored all the adults and looked only at the children. But there were so many of them! “Red hair, red hair,” she reminded herself under her breath, trying not to panic, trying not to imagine the worst.
She kept calling his name, pushing her way through the crowd. When she reached the fiery hot forges, Elisabeth was certain she’d guessed wrongly. He must have gone back toward the marketplace. Toward the fleshers with their lethal knives. Toward the shoemakers with their sharp awls. Toward the swords and the dirks that he’d desperately wanted to touch.
“Peter!” She was screaming now, not caring what people thought of her. Caring only about a little boy who’d slipped from her grasp. “Peter!”
Forty-Nine
Never think that God’s delays
are God’s denials.
GEORGES-LOUIS LECLERC, COMTE DE BUFFON
lease, Lord. Please help me find him.
Elisabeth retraced her steps, struggling to catch her breath. “Peter Dalgliesh!” she cried, knowing the lad would never hear her, no matter how loudly she called his name. The marketplace was too noisy, too congested. In the sea of faces, she saw only strangers.
“Peter, where are you?” she moaned, bending down, fixing her gaze a few feet above the ground, desperately looking for a red-headed boy in a muslin shirt and brown waistcoat. All she could think about was how frightened he must be. Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.
She felt physically ill, her stomach in knots. Had he returned to the sheep market? Run down Shaw’s Close, curious what he might find in the narrow passageway? Or had a stranger beckoned him to follow?
When she heard a child crying, Elisabeth elbowed her way through the milling crowd, more concerned with haste than politeness. “Peter? Peter, is that you?” A moment later she reached the sobbing lad. He was the same age and size, but, alas, he was not Peter.
His mother, holding him firmly by the hand, jutted out her chin. “Have ye lost yer bairn?”
“He’s run off,” Elisabeth confessed. “Perhaps you’ve seen him? Bright red hair and blue eyes.”
“Och! Ye’ll find plenty o’ lads here what fits that.”
“Aye,” Elisabeth said, fighting tears.
“Noo, lass, dinna greet.” Compassion softened the woman’s features. “He’ll not have gane far. And he’ll be leuking for ye as weel. A bairn aye finds its mither.”
But I am not his mother. Jenny would never have let go.
Heartsick, Elisabeth pressed on, searching up and down Water Row. Whenever she saw a familiar face from the neighborhood, she hurried to the person’s side