10. Jill the Cow

7 DAYS LEFT

The owls went wild up high, soaring by the nets. In the wide-spread traps, glue dripped down the trees.

Sylvia rubbed her stomach. 'Good Lord I'm starving.'

'When are we going to build the farm?'

Bobby looked unimpressed. He also looked scrawny: his head was almost the size of a turnip, arms short stumps and legs little sticks. An absence of owls, or meat, would do no good. Sylvia gave a polite smile.

'When you grow to be the size of Louis…'

'I believe the sky's going to crack open before then. Talk sense Sylvie: I'm never going to grow and be as big as Louis or Zair or Azra. Those boys are squires. They're given gigantic meals to build them up for battling Scots. I'm practically a beggar, destined to become a walking skeleton, when will I grow —'

Her mind drifted…

Sylvia looked down at her hand and imagined a diamond ring hanging off her middle finger. Turning her finger, rolling it, the diamond gave off a glint with its green sides fuming, sharp as teeth.

She grabbed his shoulders.

'You're twelve. You're young,' she told him. 'Azra, Zair, and Louis are old. Those boys are sixteen. Ancient. They've been around forever. You've still got summers left to grow and trust me, you'll grow. You'll be as tall as Wally Pierrepoint.'

'Nobody wants to be Wally Pierrepoint.'

She let him go. 'You want to be a knight?'

'Yes, of course, I want to be a knight.' Bobby was straining, on his toes, attempting to seem taller. 'Have you seen how those guys look? They're like princes…'

He sighed and looked himself over, seeing his arms, his chest, his legs. His face fell heartbroken. Sylvia appeared sympathetic seeing her brother's eyes falling, thinking no, it wasn't going to happen; anything princelike wasn't going to fit with Bobby Wheeler.

Sylvia smiled to herself. 'Ah, I see.'

'What?'

She watched owls hit the net, shake and lose feathers.

'You want to be a knight, don't you — big tall successful man, hundreds of ladies following him? I can't blame you. I mean, who knows, keep hanging out with those squires and you'll pick up a few tricks. You'll grow.'

'Sylvie, what do you mean?'

'You want a lady, don't you?'

His face flushed red. 'What? No! Why are we still talking?'

'Oh come on, there must be some girls you like in town.'

'No, can't think of any.'

'Really? Nooo?'

'What about Isabella?' Bobby's eyes shifted.

'She's engaged to Prince Billy.'

'Really?'

'Yes, they're due to be married in a few months,' Sylvia felt herself very cruel, saying all of this. 'She will be Prince Billy's wife, forever. So, trust me, there are plenty of other girls.'

'That's terrible.'

'Don't look so sad.'

'Billy, really? What does he have that I don't? I could offer Isabella all the dirt and straw and sweat we have; why she would be happy. I'd be happy. I'd take her anywhere she wanted.'

'Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm sure Isabella would rather be Queen of England.'

'Ah, who wants to be queen?'

'Everyone.'

'Even me?' Bobby raised an eyebrow.

Sylvia ran her hands through her hair. She fantasized about pulling off a crown — the kind she saw on the bronze pennies.

By the trees, a twig snapped.

A tall man approached from the thicket.

His face jumped out harsh and young with damp blue eyes. He had a polished beard kept well-trimmed, oil-slicked so it fell underneath his chin. He had rough-worn gold hair which would've made it impossible for him to wear any kind of hat. He walked out in precise steps, his thin legs strutting, similar to the way that strange Scot walked last full moon.

She grabbed Bobby and pulled him back.

'Sylvia Wheeler?'

Her throat clicked, hesitant.

'Yes, that's my name.'

The man's stare widened. His eyes had been grey and dull-like but they lit up, alert. She recognised the accent but couldn't think why.

He reached out a hand.

'For god's sake, when the full moon rises, you should stay inside.'

She knew that accent. Scottish.

Was there going to be another attack? Bizarre of him to warn her.

She glared at her arm where the wolf's white rash-like scars remained. For some reason, it was itching.

He came closer.

'Please, you're going to grow, you're going to grow faster than poison ivy, you're going to overwhelm your entire town…'

'What? What do you mean?' Bobby jolted back.

The man wrung his hands and pleaded: 'Come with me, leave your town…'

Sylvia pulled Bobby back, past the trees, where they ran over the grass and through the branches. She looked and saw the man had vanished. A glance over the area made her think. Only the flickering leaves, brushed aside in a hurry, gave any sign someone had fled.

That night Sylvia perched up in the shack, her skin itching so furious, she thought beetles were crawling over. It was a minute and half of scratching herself all over before she calmed down. She crouched, hand on her knees, breathing slowly in the moonlight.

4 DAYS LEFT

Milking Jill the II took half an hour.

Sylvia pushed the buckets below the beast's belly. This Jill's udders were different, fatter, and the cow had probably never been milked. Needless to say, Jill II sounded shocked when Sylvia started milking: she made squeaks, grunts, and other noises of complaint. This wasn't the same cow, but if her milk sold, Sylvia wasn't complaining.

Although Jill the I had been part of the family with her huge eyes, pungent smell and talent for sitting around all day, anything that could be sold at the market and used to collect rent, was dubbed a Wheeler family member.

New Jill had sat nice and peaceful outside this month, resting her legs on the dirt, occasionally nudging her head against the shack wall, like her predecessor, but she was a good cow. She had replaced Jill I with little fuss; that said, a post with udders could've replaced Jill I. Sylvia filled the buckets up to the top, distilled them into bottles and then patted the beast on the head. Jill gave her a perplexed look — was that love in her wet stupid eyes? Sylvia thought it was. Jill II was going to fit in just fine.

Sylvia took Bobby into Market Square. Every month dozens of crimson tents were pulled up. Outside Sylvia found a little stool. People streamed in and out of the tents, around the mud. Nobles dived into purses to spend coin with smooth hands that had never held shovels, tools or rifled through dirt. She wanted to shake those hands, hold onto them for a while, just to feel privileged.

'Hello,' someone said. 'Is this your milk?'

There it was. Scottish accent.

The man had peering eyes. He had old yellow hair swept into place. But this man had a calm face, his expression giving off a candle's warmth.

Sylvia grabbed the bucket. Bobby noticed.

'Sylvia, dear sister, what are you doing?' His tone verged on terror. 'This very handsome gentleman is offering to pay a large amount of money for our milk and keep us alive for another month.'

'He's got the right idea,' the man said.

If a Scotsman's coins were the only thing between having a house and sleeping in the rain, she'd accept whatever money he offered. He was their first visitor. The milk often got sold to the first visitor.

He whacked a bag of coins onto the table. She didn't know how much was in there, but from the heavy clinking sound, knew it could pay rent.

'Tell you what, I'll buy your milk,' he said. 'If you do me a favour and stay away from the full moon. Would you do that…for me?'

Sunlight made the coins glow.

'Well, I guess I'm going to have to now.'

He released the bag.

Sylvia grabbed up the coins in a fast, desperate way that made her blush.