“Hmmmm.” Hannah made a sound deep in her throat. “Let's see to the leg you've got left first.”

Jennet forced herself to watch as Hannah unwrapped the stump, which was, she would admit to no one but herself, far worse than she had imagined. Hannah used a scissors from her basket to cut away the filthy bandages, stiff with blood and pus.

“A surgeon did that?” Jennet asked the question though she meant not to.

Hannah snorted softly. “He calls himself a surgeon, yes. I would guess he learned his trade in a butcher shop.”

“He charged good money,” said the boy behind them. “Money we meant to spend on supplies.”

Horace's face contorted as Hannah tugged at the bandages, and to Jennet he looked like one of the faces in her father's illustrated Paradise Lost, peering up from the bowels of hell.

“This won't be pleasant,” Hannah said. “There's a leather strap in my bag if you need something to bite into.”

The man's head fell back against the mattress and he burped and farted at once. Perhaps not Milton, after all, but more of Robert Burns, thought Jennet dryly.

“Just go away,” he said. “I ain't got a red penny to pay you.”

“Hardwork,” said Hannah, ignoring this direct order. “I am going to need a lot of water. Bring me a basinful and then set more to heating.” She pulled a length of clean cloth from her basket and spread it out on the only unoccupied corner of a table piled high with dirty dishes and cutlery. In quick movements she began to lay out her instruments on the cloth.

“A full bucket's worth, do you understand? Make sure the kettle is clean before you put the water to boil, scour it with sand if you have to,” Hannah said, looking up to make sure the boy was listening. Her tone was short and a little sharp but not unkind. “And make sure you stoke the fire well, I need it very hot.”

Hardwork was studying his bare feet, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Ma took the kettle with her.” He almost whispered it, but it was enough to rouse Horace, who had fallen back into a stupor.

He looked right at Jennet with such a strange mixture of pain and fury that she must lean forward when he beckoned with one finger.

“I'll die, and then she'll be sorry she took that kettle.” He hiccupped softly. His breath was so heavy with alcohol that Jennet felt momentarily dizzy.

Hannah made a dismissive sound. “You won't die today, Horace Greber, though you may want to before I'm done. Hardwork, listen now. I need that basin of water to start with, and then you can go borrow a kettle and some soap and some clean linen too. And hurry or you'll miss the start of Jennet's story.”

“What story is that?” said Hardwork, looking more interested now and not quite so desperate.

“Hurry back or you'll never know,” said Jennet. “And won't you be the poorer for it?”

In the short time Jennet had spent in Paradise her stories had already become legend, for she was filled with them and they must spill out, often at the oddest times. Stories of her clansmen and battles fought for freedom from tyranny; villains and heroes and those who were a little of each; the well-loved stories of the Pirate Stoker and how she and Hannah had outfoxed him as girls, or tried to; stories of treasure lost and never found; stories about her home and her childhood and her family; stories about her journey and a little dog named Pip who could do the most amazing tricks and understood three languages.

She read the tarot cards for anyone who showed an interest in them. Each time was the same: she would lay them down in a pattern, study each with a great seriousness, consult her notes, and then launch into a reading that was a combination of anecdotes, observations, suggestions, and gentle admonitions. Curiosity was especially interested in the cards and she and Jennet sat down with them whenever Hannah came to see Richard or work in the laboratory.

Now Horace Greber peered up at her from the depths of his drunkenness, his face wet with perspiration, and asked for something he would have never allowed himself under other circumstances.

“Will you read the cards for me?”

What Horace was looking for, Hannah knew without a doubt, was a promise that he would not die today or tomorrow or next week. This was clear to Jennet too. She would refuse his request, Hannah knew, but first she was deciding what story she would tell to appease him. Just as she herself must think long and hard about what medicines would serve the problem at hand most effectively, Jennet chose her tales carefully. Many-Doves called Jennet Moon-Spinner, and it fit her well: she could cast stars up into the sky with her words alone.

“Not the cards,” said Jennet. “Not today. Today I think you'll want to hear about old MacQuiddy, and why it was he never took a wife.”

At that Hannah could not hold back a smile. Jennet's supply of stories about MacQuiddy were each of them more outrageous than the last, and stories about him were a favorite among the villagers.

Under a layer of grime and sweat Horace had gone very pale as Hannah began her work, but he was determined to ignore her. He grunted his approval at Jennet.

“A clever man, MacQuiddy.”

“Was he, do you think?” asked Jennet. “You'll have to listen and decide for yourself.”

“First,” Jennet began when Hardwork had taken a stool on his father's far side, “you must recall that MacQuiddy was steward to my father the earl and his father before him. For fifty years MacQuiddy was the best of servants, and the sourest of men.