you eat eggs.”
She followed the girl step for step. “I’m not talking about hunting them for food or gathering eggs from a henhouse. I’m talking about killing birds for no other reason than to put them on a hat. If we keep it up, we’ll have no birds left.”
Bettina gave her a skeptical look. “We ain’t likely to run outta birds.”
“That’s what they said about passenger pigeons. We had millions of them, billions even. Their flocks were so dense they’d block the noonday sun clean out, and where are they now? Gone, or very nearly so. And for what purpose? To satisfy a bunch of trapshooting men and to trim the clothing of a bunch of fashion-conscious women.”
Bettina scratched her hip. “I’m right sorry, Miss Georgie. I don’t wanna make ya mad. I mighta put it back if it meant a nickel, but fifty cents? Well, me and Pa could live a long time on fifty cents.” She whirled around and jogged down the boardwalk, boots clomping.
Georgie watched her go, her throat swelling. Those eggs would never hatch whether Bettina sold them or not. But that wasn’t the point. The fifty cents she’d earn was as tainted as the thirty pieces of silver Judas earned. The difference was, Bettina didn’t understand what she was doing. But Judas and Mr. Ottfried did.
Setting her jaw, she looked neither left nor right, but straight ahead. Marching down Market Street, she determined she would put a stop to his grotesque offer if it was the last thing she did.
In her resolve to reach the millinery, she didn’t immediately hear her name being called. When it finally penetrated, she looked around, a bit dazed.
Mrs. Ottfried, the milliner’s wife, stood in front of the curiosity shop, waving her over. “Georgie, dear. Whatever are you doing? Who’s working the switchboard? Has some calamity befallen? You look utterly pallid. I hope no one has . . .”
The rest was lost on Georgie as her vision cleared and she had her first real glimpse at Mrs. Ottfried’s outfit. An owl’s head with blank staring eyes perched upon her hat. Swallows’ wings edged her cape. And heads of yellow finches hemmed her skirt.
Georgie slammed her eyes shut, but the image remained stamped on her mind.
Mrs. Ottfried slipped her arm around Georgie’s waist. “My dear, you look ready to faint. Quick, come inside Ernst’s shop and catch your breath.”
A swallow’s wing brushed against Georgie’s arm. Yelping, she jumped out of reach, bile quickly rising. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she looked for an alley or someplace she could go, but there was nothing.
Instead, she ran. Back down Market Street, right on Sycamore, and left on Cottonwood, no longer able to hold her tears or distress at bay.
Adjusting the earpiece, Luke stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his feet. “Well, thank you for asking, Miss Honnkernamp. I reckon my favorite is pork belly. I don’t suppose there’s any place in town you might recommend, is there?”
“Oh my. It takes a person who knows what she’s doing to rub, brine, and braise a belly, Mr. Palmer.”
He allowed himself a smile. “That so?”
“Yes, indeed. And I can’t think of anyone in town who does it up right.”
“That’s some mighty sorry news you’re giving me, ma’am.” Picking up the pencil he’d been keeping notes with, he scribbled fast or naïve? beside Mattieleene Honnkernamp’s name. “Just how do the fellas round here survive without pork belly?”
She made him wait a few seconds before answering. “I guess they get themselves invited to dinner by someone who has experience.”
He stilled. Her voice was low and full of suggestion. He crossed out naïve. “I reckon you’re right about that.” Sitting up, he tucked his legs beneath the chair. “Well, I better—”
The gate out front slammed, rapid footfalls in its wake.
Frowning, he looked over his shoulder. “I better let you go, Miss Honnkernamp, and free up some of these other lines. It was a
She followed the girl step for step. “I’m not talking about hunting them for food or gathering eggs from a henhouse. I’m talking about killing birds for no other reason than to put them on a hat. If we keep it up, we’ll have no birds left.”
Bettina gave her a skeptical look. “We ain’t likely to run outta birds.”
“That’s what they said about passenger pigeons. We had millions of them, billions even. Their flocks were so dense they’d block the noonday sun clean out, and where are they now? Gone, or very nearly so. And for what purpose? To satisfy a bunch of trapshooting men and to trim the clothing of a bunch of fashion-conscious women.”
Bettina scratched her hip. “I’m right sorry, Miss Georgie. I don’t wanna make ya mad. I mighta put it back if it meant a nickel, but fifty cents? Well, me and Pa could live a long time on fifty cents.” She whirled around and jogged down the boardwalk, boots clomping.
Georgie watched her go, her throat swelling. Those eggs would never hatch whether Bettina sold them or not. But that wasn’t the point. The fifty cents she’d earn was as tainted as the thirty pieces of silver Judas earned. The difference was, Bettina didn’t understand what she was doing. But Judas and Mr. Ottfried did.
Setting her jaw, she looked neither left nor right, but straight ahead. Marching down Market Street, she determined she would put a stop to his grotesque offer if it was the last thing she did.
In her resolve to reach the millinery, she didn’t immediately hear her name being called. When it finally penetrated, she looked around, a bit dazed.
Mrs. Ottfried, the milliner’s wife, stood in front of the curiosity shop, waving her over. “Georgie, dear. Whatever are you doing? Who’s working the switchboard? Has some calamity befallen? You look utterly pallid. I hope no one has . . .”
The rest was lost on Georgie as her vision cleared and she had her first real glimpse at Mrs. Ottfried’s outfit. An owl’s head with blank staring eyes perched upon her hat. Swallows’ wings edged her cape. And heads of yellow finches hemmed her skirt.
Georgie slammed her eyes shut, but the image remained stamped on her mind.
Mrs. Ottfried slipped her arm around Georgie’s waist. “My dear, you look ready to faint. Quick, come inside Ernst’s shop and catch your breath.”
A swallow’s wing brushed against Georgie’s arm. Yelping, she jumped out of reach, bile quickly rising. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she looked for an alley or someplace she could go, but there was nothing.
Instead, she ran. Back down Market Street, right on Sycamore, and left on Cottonwood, no longer able to hold her tears or distress at bay.
Adjusting the earpiece, Luke stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his feet. “Well, thank you for asking, Miss Honnkernamp. I reckon my favorite is pork belly. I don’t suppose there’s any place in town you might recommend, is there?”
“Oh my. It takes a person who knows what she’s doing to rub, brine, and braise a belly, Mr. Palmer.”
He allowed himself a smile. “That so?”
“Yes, indeed. And I can’t think of anyone in town who does it up right.”
“That’s some mighty sorry news you’re giving me, ma’am.” Picking up the pencil he’d been keeping notes with, he scribbled fast or naïve? beside Mattieleene Honnkernamp’s name. “Just how do the fellas round here survive without pork belly?”
She made him wait a few seconds before answering. “I guess they get themselves invited to dinner by someone who has experience.”
He stilled. Her voice was low and full of suggestion. He crossed out naïve. “I reckon you’re right about that.” Sitting up, he tucked his legs beneath the chair. “Well, I better—”
The gate out front slammed, rapid footfalls in its wake.
Frowning, he looked over his shoulder. “I better let you go, Miss Honnkernamp, and free up some of these other lines. It was a
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