Kip smiled back but in a hollow way that showed he didn’t believe her. Molly felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Why was she lying to him? Why couldn’t she just tell him the truth?
She set down her basket. “Kip,” she said softly, “I wish I knew the right thing to say. I wish I could tell you we were safe in the stables, safe at that house, but the truth is … I don’t know. I don’t know if we should stay and wait for Ma an’ Da or run fast as we can away from that place. I’m makin’ it up as I go, like a story. Only”—she swallowed—“I’m not sure how this one ends.”
For a moment, the village and market melted away and they were standing alone. Molly stared into Kip’s wide, bright eyes. She almost thought she could do it—tell him the truth about her nightmares, tell him about the letters and where they came from and what, in her deepest heart, she was afraid to admit that might mean.
“There’s somethin’ I ain’t told you yet,” Kip said. He adjusted the grocery sack on his shoulder. “The night man didn’t just let me go in the woods. He left somethin’ for me. A gift.” He reached into the bag and removed a small object made from twigs and leaves.
Molly stared at the gift. It was long and thin and had a small loop at one end. “It’s a key,” she said.
“Aye.” He ran his thumb over it. “But why? And where do you think it goes?”
Molly swallowed, hoping her face did not betray her fear. She recognized the size and shape of the key. It was an exact replica of the key in Mistress Windsor’s bedroom, the one that opened the little green door at the top of the stairs. “Kip, you must listen to me: even if you find a lock that fits it, don’t ever use that key.”
He looked at her. “You know where it goes, don’t you?”
“All I know is that any gift from that man is no gift at all.” Molly could not say why, but the thought of her brother learning about the tree made her sick. “Give it here.” She held out her hand.
“You’re lying.” Kip inched back from her. “You know, and you’re not tellin’ me.”
Molly snatched the key from his hand and ran past him.
“Give it back!” he cried, struggling to follow.
Molly reached the edge of the road. She threw the key as far as she could into some bushes along a ravine.
“That wasn’t yours!” Kip shouted, hobbling closer. He was panting and his voice was choked with anger.
Molly felt a flush of shame—not for throwing away the key but for outrunning him. “Kip, you have to promise me: if that man tries to give you anythin’ else, you’ll get rid of it—bury it or burn it or throw it in the river.”
Kip stared at the bushes, his jaw set.
She bent down, taking hold of his shoulders. “Promise me.”
A creaking voice sounded behind her. “To demand promises is to invite disappointment.”
Molly turned around to see Hester Kettle standing next to a bread stall. She was wearing the same patchwork cloak as before, and her bundle of junk seemed to have doubled in size since they first met. On her face was a look that put Molly in mind of a spider. “Hello, dearie.” She stuck out a knobby finger. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
olly stood in the market, half wanting to drop her basket and run. What was it about Hester that made her so uncomfortable? “I ain’t avoidin’ you,” she said, stepping in front of Kip. “I just been busy.”
“Busy avoiding me, you mean.” The woman gave a good-hearted chuckle and moved closer. Her hurdy-gurdy was slung over one shoulder, and it knocked against her side as she walked, releasing an ugly chord with each step. “How many times have you come to market? And not a once did you ask after old Hester Kettle. Why, it’s enough to hurt a girl’s feelings.”
Molly felt fairly certain that it would take more than that to hurt Hester Kettle’s feelings—she wasn’t even sure people that old had feelings. The woman peered into Molly’s basket as if it were her own. “Buying groceries, I see.” She grabbed a pea pod from the basket and ate it before Molly could stop her.
Molly pulled the basket away. “We’re tryin’ to,” she said. “Only folks ain’t makin’ it easy for us.” She snuck an irritated glance at the row of stalls behind them.
Kip chimed in. “Just ’cause our master’s rich don’t mean we are. Molls here’ll be in a good bit o’ trouble if she don’t come home with a full basket.”
The woman nodded, rubbing her earlobe. “Perhaps old Hester can help you there.”
Molly gave a smile that she hoped was polite. “Unless you’ve got a stack o’ banknotes in that pack of yours, I doubt it.”
“Leave the notes for the bankers,” the woman said. “There’s more currency in the world than pounds and pennies—especially for a storyteller. You watch and see.” She tapped her nose and stepped over to a baker who was selling loaves and rolls. Molly had already tried buying something from this man; even his day-olds had been too expensive. “Ho there, Tolliver,” Hester called in the casual tone of an old friend. She gestured to Molly and Kip. “How much are you charging these two pups for a loaf of your best rye?”
The man looked from Hester to Molly. “I told ’em fourpence,” he said.
“Fourpence!” She whistled. “That’s some fancy bread. There must be flecks of gold in the dough, or maybe it sings as you chew it?”
“It’s regular bread,” he said, looking a bit more uncomfortable. “And that’s the regular price.”
“Perhaps it is.” She leaned against the stall. “But what if I was to tell you these two here were my kinsmen? What price would you tell them then?”
The man shifted his weight. “Well, then, Hester. I s’pose the price would be tuppence—”
“Tolliver,” she said reproachfully.
“—for two!” he stammered. “You didn’t let me finish. Tuppence for two loaves—that’s what I was gonna say. Honest.”
Hester grinned broadly. “That’s what I thought.” She nodded to Molly, who paid for four loaves and quickly put them in her basket before the man changed his mind. The woman turned back to the baker and leaned close. “Now, Tollie, you run and tell every other farmer and good-for-naught here that these two get the Hester Kettle price and not a pip more … and if I hear of any more chiseling, I’ll be forced to tell a tale or two about how you spike your flour with ground-up cat bones.”
Molly was fairly certain that the business about cat bones was not true. But from the man’s face, it seemed that—true or not—the threat was credible. “No need for that, Hester. I’ll do as you say.” He smiled at Molly and Kip, and when he spoke, his voice had a note of forced kindness. “Any friend of Hester’s is a friend of the hollow. If you pair would be kind enough to watch my store, I might not notice if a few of those there biscuits went missing.” He hung his apron and started toward the butcher across the way.
Hester watched the man with a satisfied smile. “You heard the fellow,” she said, gesturing to the unguarded shelf of biscuits. “Eat your fill.” Kip apparently did not need to be told twice; he hobbled past Molly and stuffed a biscuit into his mouth before she could stop him.
Molly hated the idea of owing this woman anything. “You lied to that man,” she said, not touching a biscuit. She had half a mind to return the loaves as well.
“And when did I do that?” Hester asked, stuffing a few biscuits into the birdcage strapped to her back. “I might’ve promised to tell a tale in the future … but that’s hardly the same thing as a lie.”
“You told him we was your kinsmen.”
“Why, that bit’s true!” She pointed an accusing biscuit at Molly. “I can tell a fellow storyteller when I see one—that makes us kin enough.”
“Molls is a storyteller, all right,” Kip said through crumbs. “A great one! Whatever folks pay you for stories—I bet they’d pay my sister double!”
Molly felt her cheeks burn. She didn’t like Kip talking about her like she was special. Even more, she didn’t like him comparing her to this old crone. “There’s nothin?
?? so great about me,” she said. “I’m just a servant. And you’re just a beggar.”
Hester shook her head. “Don’t confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there’s no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life. Never drew a free breath, yet he shaped the world with just three small words: ‘There once was.’ And where are his great masters now, hmm? Rotting in tombs, if they’re lucky. But Aesop—he still lives to this day, dancing on the tip of every tongue that’s ever told a tale.” She winked at Molly. “Think on that, next time you’re scrubbing floors.”
Molly had of course heard of Aesop, but she hadn’t known anything about him being a slave. She doubted it was true, and even if it was, it didn’t change the ugly facts of her own life. “We’re grateful for your help with the bread, mum,” she said, taking Kip by the shoulder. “But we should get moving before sundown.”
“There’s plenty of blue left in the sky,” the woman said. “Besides, we have business, you and me. You may recall promising me a story about a certain house in the sourwoods?” The woman folded her arms together, perhaps indicating that she was willing to fight for the story, if need be.
Molly hesitated. She could feel Kip watching her, waiting to hear what she said. If it were up to him, he would probably tell the woman everything. Molly, however, did not trust Hester Kettle. Behind the smiles and winks and “dearies” there was an edge to the woman that made her uncomfortable—something dark and crafty that lurked just behind the eyes. What was it Hester really wanted?
“Afraid there’s not much to tell.” Molly shrugged. “It’s a big old house. Lots of dust and cobwebs. Lots of chores. Nothin’ too strange.”
“Nothing too strange?” The woman took a step closer. “Tell me: What’s the chore, exactly, that makes a young girl’s hair shrivel up and her face go pale?”
Molly shifted her weight. She had been careful to tuck her hair under her cap, but apparently she had not been careful enough. She looked back to Kip, who nodded to her, urging her to tell the truth. “I’m just tired,” she said, standing tall. “A little sick with fever, maybe. Nothin’ more.”
The woman sniffed. “I know all about your fevers.” She glared at Molly, her eyes full of something mean. “It’s plain you know something, and it’s plainer you refuse to tell it. Very well, I’m not one to grovel. You can keep your story—seems we’re less kin than I suspected.” She bowed to Kip. “Watch out for chores, little man, lest you wind up like your sister.” She adjusted the weight of her pack and turned around.
Molly watched the woman move away from them, her collection of junk swinging back and forth with each step. Her relief was mingled with a feeling of regret. Why didn’t she want this woman to know about the house and the tree? Why didn’t she want to tell her about the night man?
“It ain’t fever!” Kip called out.
The woman stopped walking.
“Kip!” Molly hissed.
Kip glared at her. “You promised to tell her, Molls. If you won’t do it, I will.” He hobbled toward the woman, who was now watching him with keen interest. “There’s some kinda spirit who haunts the house at night,” he said. “He’s makin’ everyone sick and pale—just like my sister.”
Molly grabbed his arm. “That’s enough, Kip!” She wanted to drag him away, to cover his mouth, to make him stop telling this woman things.
Kip pulled away. “And there’s a tree—a great big, horrible tree. Every night, the man feeds and cares for it.”
“Is that so?” The old woman was watching Kip with a look that Molly could only describe as hunger.
Molly put a hand on her brother’s shoulder, but she did not stop him. Kip hopped closer, swallowing. “You know every story there is around these parts. So tell us: Do you know one about a man and a tree?”
The woman looked at Kip and then at Molly. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
laiming that an open market was no place for a proper story, Hester led them both to a tavern at the end of the road. Molly looked up at the wooden sign above the door. It had a carving of a crescent moon dipping below some waves. “The Moon Under Water,” Hester said, pushing open the door. “There’s no better spot for a pot of ale and good conversation.”
Molly stepped inside. The tavern was dark and warm. What little light bled in through the shuttered windows was soaked up by the thick cloud of smoke that floated above the tables—so thick that it hid the rafters. Men and a few women sat in chairs, talking in hushed tones. Every so often, the silence was broken with a startling burst of laughter or a clanking of plates or the sharp scrape of a stool against the wooden floor.
“Ho there, Hester!” one man called. “Come to treat us with a song?”
“Not today, William.”
Molly and Kip followed her to an empty table in the corner that seemed to be waiting for them. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, carefully removing her pack from her shoulders and setting it beside the table. When she was seated, the pack was nearly as high as her head. Kip, who had never been in a tavern, eagerly slid into the corner chair, where, Molly supposed, he would have the best view of the other patrons. This suited Molly just fine because it meant she could better protect him, if trouble came. Trouble did not come, except in the form of a fat barmaid with yellow hair and a broad smile. She set down three mugs of cider, which sloshed as they landed. “On the house,” she said.
Hester put her hands to her breast. “Bless you, Franny. I’ll be sure to tell folks all about how your mince pies cured a blind man Sunday last.”
The woman chuckled. “I wouldn’t stop you if you did!” She wiped her hands on her apron and went back to the bar.
Molly watched this exchange, somewhat confused. It seemed like all Hester had to do was threaten to tell a nasty story or promise to tell a good one and folks did whatever she wanted. But if everyone knew that Hester’s stories were made up, then why did they pay her any mind?
Molly had had cider once and didn’t like the taste. Kip, however, seemed to show a natural affinity. He was nose-deep into his mug before she could blink. “Aren’t you a thirsty one?” Hester said, chuckling.
“It tastes like apples!” Kip said, licking the foam from his top lip.
Molly sniffed her own drink. “Rotten ones.”
The old woman raised her cup. “To differing opinions: may they ever stay apart.” She toasted and then sipped in a manner that could only be described as ladylike.
Molly pushed her drink aside. “You promised us a story.”
“Indeed I did.” Hester set down her mug and dabbed her lips on the edge of her cloak. “But first there’s the question of what kind of story it’ll be.”
Molly rolled her eyes. The woman had a way of answering questions without answering questions. “What kind of story?” she said. “You mean like happy or sad?”
“Stories come in all different kinds.” Hester scooted closer, clearly enjoying the subject at hand. “There’s tales, which are light and fluffy. Good for a smile on a sad day. Then you got yarns, which are showy—yarns reveal more about the teller than the story. After that there’s myths, which are stories made up by whole groups of people. And last of all, there’s legends.” She raised a mysterious eyebrow. “Legends are different from the rest on account no one knows where they start. Folks don’t tell legends; they repeat them. Over and again through history. And the story I have for you”—she sat back on her stool—“why, that one’s a legend.”
Molly was trying to follow. “So legends are true, then?”
The woman shrugged; again, not an answer. “Who’s to say? Truer than the rest, I suppose.” She raised a finger. “But you should know: legends are very expensive.”
Molly sighed. “We haven’t got money, as you’re well aware.”
The woman waved her off. “I don’t want your money. You’ll pay Hester the same way everyone does.” She gestured to her pack beside her. Molly looked at the jumble of tr
ash and bric-a-brac, realizing for the first time that every object there represented a story. She wondered what sort of story might have been bought with a pair of baby shoes or a tortoise shell or hedging shears.
“If you dinna want money, what do you want?” Molly said.
The woman’s eyes drifted to Kip’s crutch propped against the wall. “I could always do with a fine walking stick—”
Molly put a hand on her brother’s leg. “You canna have that,” she said.
The woman chuckled. “I didn’t think so. So let’s see …” She rolled her fingers on the table, screwing up her face in thought. “I couldn’t help but notice: ever since I showed up, your brother’s had one hand buried in his pocket.”
Molly looked down at Kip and saw that he did indeed have one hand in the pocket of his coat. It was balled up in a little fist, as though he were holding something. He shifted, uncomfortable. “My hand’s cold,” he said.
The woman smiled. “Cold or not. You give me whatever’s in there, and we’ll call it even.”
It was obvious that Kip did not want to do this. Molly leaned toward him. “We got no choice,” she whispered. The truth was, Molly was grateful that the woman had asked for the contents of Kip’s pockets and not her own. In her pocket were the letters from Ma and Da—she would never be able to give those up.
Kip bit his lip. “All right.” He pulled his fist from his pocket and placed something small on the table. “It’s a wishin’ button. Molly gave it to me.”
“You don’t say.” The woman whistled. “Two pups come to me wanting to know about a man and a tree … and of all the things they could pay, they give me a button to wish on.” She picked it up, holding it between her fingers like a jewel. “I’ll take good care of it.” She reached over to her pack and removed a short length of string that seemed to have been put there just for this occasion. She carefully laced the string through the buttonhole and then tied it around her neck.
Molly squeezed her brother’s hand. She knew it meant something to give up that button, even if it was just make-believe. “We paid your price,” she said. “Now let’s hear the tale.”