Maid of Wonder by Jennifer McGowan Page A

than last time!”
    â€œLook yer fill, ladies! But first, your special mixture.” Maude grins, and her shawl shifts as she leans forward, baring a swath of skin. I can see a large mole on her neck, and I try to quell my lurch of fear. Despite my own learned upbringing and my careful studies of the arcane, I still have to resist my completely irrational reaction to Maude’s deformity.
    To those who are superstitious—which includes nearly all the men and women of England—moles are considered signs of witchcraft or devil-worship. I have seen women slice themselves with a sharp blade, risking terrible injury, to remove a mole from their skin. Most of the time they end up with an unsightly scar, but at least the mole is gone. For some, the truly unlucky, the dark knot of skin returns, almost mocking their efforts, and they must work doubly and triply hard to hide it from the view of idle eyes. Even Anne Boleyn, Queen Elizabeth’s own mother, endured cruel court gossip because of the moles on her skin—and such gossip eventually contributed to her downfall. When King Henry grew weary of Queen Anne’s inability to give him a son, he used every weapon hecould to discredit her. Rumors that she was a witch swirled around her like a dirty fog, in part because of the way she looked.
    I, however, should know better. Whether or not Maude is a poisoner, a murderer, or, yes, a witch, has nothing to do with how she appears . . . and everything to do with what she does. And I need more than a mole on her neck or a whisper on the wind to condemn her. We will study the potion she has made for us, and learn what Jane, Meg, and Anna find at the goodwife’s cottage. If the evidence reveals her as a poisoner, then she will be judged. But she will not be tried for my fear.
    Mistress Maude finishes rooting around in her basket, and emerges with a stubby glass vial with a stoppered top. The whole thing is no larger than a man’s thumb, and Beatrice takes it with a frown, holding it up to the light. “Five shillings for this?”
    â€œUse it, an’ if you don’t think it worth ten I will be shocked. It renders the speaker quite ready to spill his secrets, whether he’s asked to do it or no. Just be careful that you’re ready to ’ear what ’e ’as to say.”
    â€œ His secrets,” Beatrice says. “It will work on any man?”
    â€œOr woman or babe as well,” Maude says. “You shall not be disappointed, this I swear.”
    We both nod, suitably impressed. If Anna can discern what this tonic is made of . . .
    Money changes hands, and we turn with noisy delight to the rest of Maude’s goods. I carefully scan the crowd as we do so. We attract no attention, which speaks well forMaude’s position in this town. Clearly, no one here suspects her of poor dealings. Instead children run round her stall, and Maude leans over to talk to her neighbor again, keeping one cautious eye on the ladies poking through her sachets.
    â€œHow much longer do the others need, do you think?” Beatrice asks beneath her breath. She holds up a pretty fabric-covered pillow that smells like dried lavender.
    â€œThey’ve not been there long, but their work should be quick. When we parted, we had farther to go than they did.” I glance back to Maude. “Should we ask her about the old woman who spoke with the Queen?”
    â€œPerhaps not,” Beatrice says. “I would rather keep in Maude’s good graces, if this truth tonic proves to be useful. The Queen may well send us back for more.” She gestures to a neighboring stall owner. “Poke around for a few minutes. Then we can be gone,” she says. “And try not to get into trouble.”
    Beatrice thanks Maude prettily, then flounces off as if to do more shopping elsewhere, and I move to the next stall, making a great business of bending down to inspect its baskets of