Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

Gareth watched with enjoyment as the tiny figure performed on a very narrow beam resting on two poles at some considerable height from the ground. She was treating the six-inch width as if it were solid ground, turning cartwheels, walking on her hands, flipping backward in a dazzling series of maneuvers that drew gasps of appreciation from the audience.

Maude's frame was similarly slender, Gareth reflected, but there was a difference. Maude was pale and thin and undeveloped. The acrobat, standing on her hands, her bright orange skirt falling over her head, revealed firm muscular calves encased for decency's sake in skintight leather leggings, and he could see the strength in her arms as they supported her slight weight. She released one hand and waved merrily, before catching the beam again with both hands and swinging sideways, tumbling over and over the beam, her hands changing position at lightning speed, her bright orange skirt a blur of color as she turned herself into something resembling a Catherine wheel.

At the top of the arc, she flung herself backward, turned a neat somersault, landed on both feet, flipped backward, her body curved like a bow, then straightened, her skirt settling around her again as she swept into a triumphant bow.

Gareth found himself applauding with the rest. Her face was flushed with exertion, her eyes alight, beads of perspiration gathered on her broad forehead, her lips parted on a jubilant grin. She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. The piercing sound produced out of nowhere a small monkey in a red jacket and a cap sporting a bright orange feather.

The animal dragged off his hat and jumped purposefully into the crowd of spectators, chattering in a manner that sounded vaguely obscene to Gareth, who tossed a silver penny into the outthrust cap, receiving a simian salute in response.

A small boy of maybe six or seven waved frantically at the girl from where he was sitting on the end of the stage. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward her, one misshapen foot dragging painfully behind the other. The girl immediately swept him into her arms and danced around the stage with him.

It was extraordinary, Gareth thought, how she imbued the poor little creature with her own grace and ease of movement so that his deformity was forgotten and his face transformed with pleasure. She radiated an exuberance and energy which infused the child in her arms until she set him down on a stool in the corner and his hunched little body once more lost all its life, although he was still smiling as the monkey bounced back onto the stage holding out his hat.

The girl tipped the contents of the hat into a leather pouch at her waist, blew a cheerful kiss to the crowd, crammed the cap back onto the animal's head, and backflipped her way off the stage.

It was the most uncanny resemblance, Gareth thought again. In everything but personality, he amended. Maude had less energy than anyone he had ever come across. She spent her days lying on a cushioned settle reading religious tracts and applying smelling salts to her small and generally pink-tipped nose. When she could be persuaded to move, she wafted, trailing scarves and shawls, surrounded by a pungently medicinal aura from the endless remedies and nerve tonics supplied by her old nurse. She spoke in a faint reedlike voice that had her listeners holding on with bated breath in case the reed should fade into muteness before the sentence was completed.

Gareth was, however, aware that his cousin, for all her apparent frailty, had a will of iron beneath the pallid exterior. Young Maude knew perfectly well how to turn her megrims to her own account, and what Maude didn't know about emotional blackmail wasn't worth knowing. It made her a worthy opponent for Imogen… if not for himself.

A trio of musicians had just taken the stage, with flute, hautboy, and lute, and he was about to turn away when he saw the girl again. She was sidling around from behind the musicians, something in her hand.

The monkey was perched on her shoulder and seemed to be imparting news of grave importance into her ear.

Gareth paused. The girl's air of mischief was irresistible. The musicians played a few notes to establish pitch, then settled into a lively jig. The monkey leaped from the girl's shoulder and began to dance to the music. The crowd laughed and were soon tapping feet and clapping in rhythm.

Gareth watched the girl unobtrusively position herself just below the musicians. She gazed up at them and put something to her mouth. It took him a minute to realize what it was. Then he grinned. The imp of Satan! She was sucking a lemon, her eyes fixed on the flautist. Gareth's gaze flicked to the small boy still on his stool. The child's eyes were brimming with laughter and Gareth realized that this little performance was for the boy's benefit.

Gareth waited in almost dreadful fascination for what he knew was going to happen. The flute player's notes began to dry up as his mouth puckered, his saliva dried, in response to the girl's vigorous sucking of the lemon. The watching child convulsed with laughter.

With a sudden bellow, the flautist leaped forward, catching the girl an almighty buffet across the ear. She fell sideways, promptly turning her fall into a cartwheel with all the expertise of a professional entertainer, so that the crowd laughed, believing the entire byplay to be part of the amusement. But when she fetched up at Gareth's feet, righting herself neatly, she had tears in her eyes.

She rubbed her ringing ear ruefully with one hand and dashed the other across her eyes.

"Not quite quick enough," Gareth observed.

She shook her head, giving him a rather watery grin.

"I usually am. I was just making Robbie laugh and I can usually run rings around Bert, but I was distracted for a minute by Chip."

"Chip?"

"My monkey." She put her fingers to her mouth again and whistled. The monkey abandoned his dance and leaped onto her shoulder.

She had a most unusual voice, Gareth reflected, regarding her with frank interest as she continued to stand beside him, critically watching a group of jugglers who had joined the musicians. It was an amazingly deep voice to emerge from such a dainty frame and had a lovely melodious ripple to it that he found very appealing. She spoke English with a slight accent so faint as to be difficult to identify.

The monkey suddenly began a frantic dance on her shoulder, jabbering all the while like some demented bedlamite, pointing with a scrawny finger toward the stage.

"Oh, sweet Lord, I knew I should have made myself scarce," the girl muttered as an exceedingly large woman hove into view. She was wearing a gown of an astonishing bright puce shot through with scarlet thread; her head seemed to ride atop a massive cartwheel ruff; the whole was crowned with a wide velvet hat tied beneath several chins with silk ribbons, gold plumes fluttering gaily in the sea breeze.

"Miranda!" The voice emanating from this spectacle suited the grandeur of its appearance. It was a massive, heavily accented, throaty bellow that was promptly repeated. "Miranda!"

"Ohhhh, Lord," the girl muttered again in a long-drawn-out sibilant moan. The monkey took off, still

chattering, and the girl dodged behind Gareth. She whispered urgently, "You would do me the most amazing service, milord, if you would just stand perfectly still until she's gone past."

Gareth was hard-pressed to keep a straight face but obligingly remained still, then he inhaled sharply as he felt a warm body slip inside his cloak behind him and plaster itself against his back. It was as if he had grown a corporeal shadow, thin enough to cause barely a crease in the folds of his scarlet silk cloak, but substantial enough to make his skin lift in a sensual ripple.

The monkey leaped in front of the large woman and began to dance and jabber in a manner radiating insult and challenge. The woman bellowed again and raised a fist the size of a ham hock wrapped around a very knotty stick. Chip laughed at her, showing yellow teeth and sparkling eyes, then plunged into the crowd; the woman followed, still bellowing, still flourishing her stick.