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knitting needles.  A little old man in
a leather apron was fiddling with some sort of clock as she passed.  The little
bird popped out of the clock and set his eyebrows on fire as the carriage
rolled by.  He yelled and dunked his head in a nearby bucket.  Mia craned her
neck to the back window (much to the consternation of the other passengers) and
was relieved to see the now soggy old fellow smear on a liberal handful of
yellow ointment before he faded out of sight of the carriage.     
     
    The
hired carriage dropped them off at a medium-sized bed and breakfast typical of
its sort: a three story white wooden house with a small green lawn and a neatly
painted sign.  Emma arranged for a room and hot water to be sent up, while Mia
levitated the bags.  The landlady, a woman of middle years and indifferent hair
color, led the pair to a small room.  It was furnished simply, with oak floors,
a colorful rag rug, and a nice china wash basin in the corner.  Two brass beds
stood at either end of the room, covered in white down comforters with little
blue bows sewn on to make them pretty.  The curtain was blue and white,
slightly faded from constant exposure to the sun.  As they began to unpack, a
steaming pitcher of water floated in. 
     
    The
lady who ran the establishment was named Mrs. Sullivan.  That evening they
dined at the boarding house.  Breakfast was part of the price of the room, but
Mrs. Sullivan provided other meals at a reasonable rate.  Most of her boarders
chose to dine at her table in the evenings at least.  Emma had indicated when
they rented the room that she intended to take all their meals there.  She set
a fine table that night, with mutton stew, crusty fresh bread, soft cheese to
spread on it, and an apple tart for desert.  Mia ate hugely, and then settled
herself on one of the twin beds with her formerly despised book.  Emma seemed
content to sit with the landlady for a good gossip by the fire.
     
    As
they readied themselves for bed, Emma looked at her charge.  Mia was wearing one
of her old nightgowns.  It hit her about mid-calf.  Emma clacked her tongue “I
remember when we bought that, it drug the ground.  You’re going to need all new
nightgowns too.  Better put that on the list.”    
     
    The
next day Mia put on her nicest dress, a blue muslin that she’d had made up that
spring.  The dress was a bit chilly for the day, so she added a thick, soft
shawl that Emma had given her last mid-winter.   The two of them walked a mile
and a half to the solicitor’s office in the business district.  The white marble
building was six stories tall, and had little brass plates for each of the
businessmen who had offices in it.  After a minute or so, Emma found the name
she was looking for.  With a hitch to her olive green shawl and a rustle of
brown homespun skirts, she led the way up the marble staircase to the second
floor offices of Mr. Smith.
     
    A
respectable-looking woman served as receptionist for all the gentlemen on the floor. 
She eyed their country clothes but made no comment.  She merely inquired about
their direction and pressed a brass button on the panel on her desk. “Miss
Amelia Rusticov and Ms. Emma Faithling are here to see you Mr. Smith.”  To
Mia’s amazement a male voice answered “Send them in Miss Daws.”  Miss Daws
showed them to a tall dark door and indicated they should enter.
     
    Mr.
Smith smiled when they walked in.  It showed the sun crinkles around his face
and mouth, so if he was wanded, he didn’t use it much.  His muddy brown hair
showed wide streaks of silver and he stood and offered his hand as they came
closer.  “Miss Rusticov, Ms. Faithling.  It’s a pleasure.  Mr. Adrian Smith, at
your service.”  He took a moment for the customary inquiries about their
journey, direction, and general state of health.  The tea service was offered
and politely declined.  Then he added “I can’t tell you, Miss Amelia, how
pleased I