Crossing Over Read Online Free Page A

called, “Cat! Where are you!” An older woman burst through the trees to the riverbank. “There you are! You know you are not supposed to—she wandered off, sir, I hope she has not troubled you—” At the sight of my hand in Cat’s, the woman stopped cold.
    She was Cat’s mother: the same brown eyes, black hair, pretty features, although this woman’s hair was tucked up under a cap and her face was tense with worry. I hastened to reassure her.
    “No trouble, mistress, none at all. We were just talking. She is fine.”
    Mrs. Starling looked from me to her daughter, trying to assess the situation. I saw her take in my old clothes, too small for me at ankle and sleeve; my dirty hair; the hole in one boot. I saw her decide that whatever I had seen, I could have no influence anywhere, and so was no threat. But she was kind.
    “Thank you, sir. Cat must go now; we start for home. Come, daughter.”
    “Bye, Roger,” Cat said. “See you again!”
    That would not happen, I knew. Not only because Cat was obviously the child of a prosperous farmer, but because she was beloved by at least one parent, who would do everything to keep her safe. I watched her go away, and in my breast warred a strange and bitter mix of regret, jealousy, and desire. I wanted Cat to stay. I wanted to go with her. I wanted to be her, sixth finger and all.
    A sixth finger and impaired wits would be lesser afflictions than what I bore.
    Slowly I left the leafy riverbank and went back to Hartah’s wagon.

4
     
    WE SPENT THE NIGHT at the same rough inn five miles from Stonegreen, and for once there was dinner for all three of us. I gobbled the bread and cheese, not knowing when I would get more. Even Aunt Jo ate well, sitting on the wooden bench as far away from Hartah as she could, her eyes cast down. Firelight turned one cheek rosy, which looked grotesque on her thin, lined face. Would my mother, had she lived, look like this? No. My mother, in my childish memory of her, had been beautiful.
    Why , I thought at Aunt Jo, won’t you tell me where and how my mother died, you pitiful woman? Aunt Jo raised her head. For an instant her gaze met mine. She looked away.
    “Good food,” Hartah grunted, and belched.
    In the morning the air had turned much colder. In another few weeks there would be frost on the grass. Hartah, to my surprise, turned the wagon south. As the sun warmed the day, he seemed in a very good mood indeed, whistling tunelessly. I rode in the back of the jostling wagon, sitting on the folded faire tent, and watched a fly crawl across the back of Hartah’s neck. After several hours of wordless travel, I risked a question addressed to his and my aunt’s back.
    “Where are we going?”
    “To the sea.” He laughed. “I have a desire for sea bathing.”
    He barely bathed at all. I could smell him every time the wind shifted.
    Over the next few days, there were fewer villages the farther south we went, and so fewer chances for harvest faires. The land grew wilder, less fertile. Fields of harvested crops gave way to pastures for sheep and then, as the ground became rockier and steeper still, to goats. After several days in the slow, creaky wagon, we turned east. For the last time we spent the night at an inn, a rough place full of rough men who did not look like farmers or herders. There were no women. Hartah paid the last of his money for a tiny room up under the eaves and left Aunt Jo and me there.
    “Bar the door,” he said, “and don’t open it until you are sure it’s me.” He went back downstairs and did not return for hours. My aunt slept restlessly on the sagging bed. Rolled in my blanket on the floor, I could hear her light sighs, see her body twitch in starlight from the tiny window. Did she dream, even as I did?
    Let there be no dreams tonight.
    There were none, and the next morning Hartah was cheerful. “A good place for information!”
    Aunt Jo looked at him, and then away.
    After that, there were no inns, and we