The Seven Tales of Trinket Read Online Free

days in the other direction.”
    “Ew. Bald and burned? They sound so unsightly. I myself would like a handsome bard.” Feather sighed. “I wager that your father was a handsome bard. What was his name again?”
    “James,” I said. “James the Bard. And yes, he was handsome.” When I closed my eyes, I could still see his dark wavy hair. I could feel the smoothness of his cheek against mine as he hugged me before I slept. And I could see his clear gray eyes. The same as my own.
    Feather shrugged. The name meant nothing to her. “Why do you seek a father who doesn’t even want you? After all, ’twas his choice to leave and not return.”
    Her words were harsh, though I did not think she meant to be so cruel. And it was a question I had asked myself again and again.
    “Of course, mayhap he has not returned because he is dead,” she added.
    Yes. I had considered that as well.
    “I am looking for the truth,” I confided, at last trying to put into words the longings of my heart. “I must know .”
    Feather took my hand in hers, placed her other hand over it, and closed her eyes.
    “I have to find out,” I said. “Why would a man who loved his wife and child leave and never come back?”
    When she opened her eyes, she spoke in a whisper.
    “Trinket, why do you seek only that story? There are many out there, you know. And you, with the blood of a bard! Were you to collect several tales, say seven, why you could trade for food and shelter for a whole week. Maybe even coin. It must be better than hauling buckets of water. You are a teller, Trinket, whether you believe it now or not.”
    Her words froze my blood. I’d never spoken the words to anyone, but it was my secret dream to become a storyteller myself someday, though I feared I’d never be good enough. True, I told stories to Thomas as we walked, but that was just to pass the time. Wasn’t it?
    The idea of becoming a bard galloped around in my head for a moment like a wild horse I was trying to coax back into its pen. If you have a dream and you hold it close to your heart, then you always get to have it. But if you let it out into the world then you discover, one way or another, if it will come true or not.
    “Perhaps your father was the storyteller that came long ago. The women all said he was comely. I only remember that he sang the most beautiful lullaby,” Feather said, interrupting my thoughts. She hummed a bit of a tune that stirred the hairs on my arms. “I loved that song, for I heard him practice it in the forest every morning as I woke. But he would not sing it for me. He said he would sing other lullabies if I had trouble sleeping, but he would sing this song for only one girl. Only one girl. ” She let the words hang in the air between us. “My own father was angry, of course. Told him that if he would not sing the song for me, the Gypsy King’s daughter, he would be banished from the camp. Or perhaps my father threatened to slit his throat. I do not remember. The bard packed up and left the next day.”
    “The lullaby. Do you remember it?” My voice shook slightly.
    “I do not remember the words—only the tune. I so loved the tune.”
    Feather hummed again. Alongside her soft, low voice, I heard another. Deeper, but smooth like butter and honey on a slice of warm bread. A voice from long, long ago.
    But Feather did not hear this voice, since it traveled from somewhere deep in my heart and sang in only my own head.
    “’Twas something about baubles, pearls, and small night birds,” she said.
    Yes, I remembered the birds.
    Feather tilted her head to the side, watching me.
    “You look odd, Trinket. Have you heard this lullaby before?”
    For the first time in longer than I could remember, no words would come.
    “Perhaps it wasn’t about pearls after all. ’Tis possible it was about domineering fathers with fat eyebrows. You are not laughing, Trinket.”
    I knew the lullaby. Not the words, precisely. But my heart knew the tune.
    It