Machine Read Free

Will’s arms as he studied the wagon’s keeper—an older man, possibly in his late fifties or early sixties. Defiant black curls tinseled with silver escaped from beneath his headwear. It wasn’t a conventional hat but more like a black velvet pie, slightly rounded at the crown, with thick gold-and-purple braiding circling the edge. Hanging from either side were lengths of the same fabric. They draped, scarf-like, over the man’s ears and across the broad shoulders of an equally dark, unusual jacket.
    His clean-shaven face seemed to have an unusual tint—pale lilac?—but that was likely an illusion caused by light playing over the hat’s purple rim. Will couldn’t make out his features very clearly, but shadows suggested chiseled bones beneath a taut sheath of skin.
    His eyes were black hollows. Fathomless.
    “I just might wander over there and see what he’s about. Name’s Ernest Muggins, by the way.”
    “Oh, uh….” A few seconds went by before Will saw the hand that was thrust toward him. Only then did he realize to whom the name Ernest Muggins was attached. “Will Marchman.” The proffered hand was rough and dry, but Will didn’t mind. Three of the four men he’d been with in his life had workingman’s hands, Fan included.
    “You sell here regular?”
    “Yes. On the boardwalk.”
    “Thought so. You look soft.”
    Will didn’t even wonder, as he normally might have, if the remark carried scorn. At the moment he was wondering what “siphonings” and “cleansings” meant. And why that ostentatious wagon made him uneasy.

Chapter Two
     
    A LTHOUGH BURNING with curiosity, Will had no time to investigate the Spiritorium. He had to set up his display.
    The cart was an ingenious structure, custom built by a Taintwellian carpenter named Emil Shickersaw. On one of its shorter sides, a wooden pocket held an advertising banner (which Will couldn’t use today), product leaflets, wrapping materials, two extra batons, and a linen towel for wiping any sweat or grime from his face and hands. On the opposite side, a small fold-down platform was hitched. Will unhooked and lowered the platform, then unlocked the top of the cart. Its longer sides proclaimed, in three angled lines of gilt and royal blue script, Wm. Marchman, Purveyor of Fineries & Toiletries for Ladies & Gents.
    A stepped wooden pyramid was nestled within this portable store. Through some mechanical wizardry Will didn’t understand, involving pieces of hardware Will couldn’t name, the structure could be pulled up with relative ease and secured in place, making it visible to passersby. It was on the display pyramid’s “shelves” that Will arrayed his products. He’d already set them up for today.
    His last order of business was to unlock a metal drawer affixed to the bottom of the cart, wherein his money box was concealed. If he became too busy, he’d simply put the coins in a pouch he could secure around his waist.
    Potential customers—women mostly, but several men as well—had already begun to mosey over, drawn by the pyramid’s twinkling temptations: lockets hanging from silk ribbon or fine, tightly braided gold and silver yarn; tortoiseshell hair combs; jet and seed-pearl brooches; cameos imported from across the sea. The men gravitated toward necessities rather than adornments: shirt studs and shaving razors, watch fobs and mustache wax. Both sexes eyed the macassar oil, tooth powder, and scented pomades.
    Business quickly became brisk. Buyers continually interrupted Will’s pitch. In fact, he didn’t even have to generate interest in his products; they were selling themselves. He soon had no choice but to secure the money pouch around his waist. At least it didn’t disrupt the smooth lines of his clothing, for the frock coat fell over it with room to spare.
    Happily doing what he did best, aside from loving Fanule Perfidor, Will lost track of time.
    Above the crowd’s noisy bustle and the cheery music issuing from a small,