Time's Echo by Pamela Hartshorne Page A

from me!’ she says and crosses
herself furtively.
    ‘He’s not doing any harm,’ I say, but I click my fingers and Hap returns reluctantly to my side and sits, his withered paw tucked into his chest. I can’t understand why
everyone can’t see how clever he is, but if they could, they would probably be even more afraid of him. Being black and only having three legs is bad enough. If they thought he was clever,
too . . . well, I have noticed that cleverness is not much admired.
    ‘You shouldn’t take it around with you, Hawise,’ Alice says, eyeing Hap with dislike. ‘People talk.’
    People don’t like it.
I remember Elizabeth saying that. She said I had to be careful of my reputation, and I have been trying. I keep my eyes downcast and I walk slowly, and I
don’t think about what it would be like to fly any more. I don’t wonder about the lands where cloves and peppers grow any longer – or not out loud. Instead I talk about the
neighbours and wonder where I will find a husband. I have changed. I am just like everyone else, the way Elizabeth said I should be. But I cannot change how I feel about Hap. I don’t care
what folk say; he is a good dog.
    ‘Did you want something?’ I ask Alice coolly.
    ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ Ignoring my tone, she tucks a hand into my arm, taking care to stay on the other side of me from Hap, and we head into the market
together.
    ‘Oh?’ It’s not like Alice to be so friendly. I know she thinks I’m odd. Dick overheard her saying so once, but she would never say it to my face. In spite of their
peculiar choice of a servant like me, the Beckwiths have a good reputation in the city. My master, William Beckwith, is an alderman, and warden of the ward. He is a prosperous draper, a warm man,
as they say, and owns tenements all over York, as well as a fine house in Goodramgate. Alice is servant to a hatter. The Swinbanks are well enough, but they can’t compare with the Beckwiths.
Alice may not envy me my looks or my dog or my father, but she envies me my place in the Beckwith household, and she is always careful to be polite to my face.
    ‘I am betrothed to John Wightman. Look!’ She flaps the pair of gloves she is carrying. ‘My betrothal gift,’ she says proudly.
    ‘That is good news indeed, Alice,’ I say.
    Alice leans closer. ‘And we’ve done it,’ she whispers.
    I am half-shocked, half-envious. I have never even kissed a boy. Mistress Beckwith keeps her servants close, but I am afraid that the real reason I have never been courted is because I am dark
and thin and sallow-skinned, and my eyes are odd. What man is ever going to want me, with my fierce brows and my flat bosom and my strange eyes? It’s not even as if I have a dowry.
    Still, I would like to know what it is like to be courted, to be wanted. I would like someone to make me smile the cat-that’s-got-the-cream smile that Alice is wearing. Too often these
days I can feel my blood pumping, and something restless and dark quivering deep in my belly. The thought of kissing, of
doing it
, kicks my pulse up a notch. I don’t like to admit
it, even to myself, but the truth is that I am envious of Alice.
    We are pushing our way through the crowded market, dodging the puddles as best we may. The chamberlains still haven’t mended the paving, in spite of the pains laid on them in the wardmote
court, and there are deep ruts where the countrymen’s carts have stuck, while the cobbles are covered in mud and vegetable scraps and fish scales and sodden straw and dung.
    The stallholders are shouting enticements over the sounds of the peddlers crying their trinkets and the clucking of chickens in their wicker cages. Beggars skulk on the edges of the market,
plucking at gowns and calling for charity. A boy weaves past us, balancing a tray on top of his head, and the smell that drifts from it makes me sniff appreciatively. ‘Hot pies! Hot
pies!’ he cries, but you can hardly hear him in