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headdresses strapped like bandages across their foreheads and under their chins, hiding all their hair, so their faces shine out like the centers of daisies. A straggle of children brings up the rear. Once they reach the bridge, the old horse jerks back into motion, the chickens squawk in complaint, and the parade winds its way on down the road.
    As the last person passes, I clamber up the bank, staring after them. I take a step to follow. But then I glance down and see my apron, a maid’s apron, and I’ve a maid’s cap perched on top of my head, and I’m clutching a smudged tablecloth. I don’t look right at all. Unless…
    I give the tablecloth a good shake, sending a last flurry of dust flying, turn the smudged side inward, and toss it around my shoulders. The sun blazes the cloth into a beautiful field of red roses. I pull off my cap and shove it in my pocket, only to be pricked by a pin. That will be the brooch for my crimson cloak. Finally, I pull off my apron and wrap it around my head, looping the ties under my chin. Now I look as if I belong.
    I hurry down the road. My feet seem to know whichdirection to take before I even see the turns, almost as if I’ve been here before.
    But when I round the bend, I gasp at what’s before me: a perfect little walled town, its gate open wide, colorful pennants flapping in the breeze. The wagon has just passed through the gate, and I run to catch up with the crowd flowing in its wake.
    Half-timbered houses crowd the narrow street, their upper stories jutting out overhead. I’m in a river of people, surging past shop fronts and whitewashed walls, past shutters thrown open to display bread or cloth or meat inside. The street spills out into a marketplace crowded with carts and stalls, laughter and music, people in homespun and others in silks. A fair! And me with nothing to do but enjoy myself.
    Oh, the air sings to my senses, with the scent of meat pies wafting from laden trays, a rainbow of fabrics spilling out across tables, the lilting strains of a flute! A man looks at me and gives a little bow as he calls, “Keep those fine fingers warm in my soft fur-lined gloves!” Dogs growl and tug over a stolen bone; a peddler holds up a dangling ribbon strung with charms; a man walks about with a monkey on his shoulder, and the monkey proudly sports a red embroidered cap. Ahead of me there’s a bright tune and a circleof onlookers. As I come closer, they part, making way, and there in the middle is a bear galumphing about on its hind legs! People clap at the awkward dance, and a boy passes a hat for coins.
    An old woman with a basket of apples gives me a gap-toothed smile. “Would your ladyship care for a taste? The best you’ll ever eat.” She cuts a fat slice, handing it to me with a nod and a deferential smile.
    A lady? Me? Well, then! I try to look noble as I bite into a fruit almost as sweet as her respectful gaze. A few drops of juice land on my rose-covered cloak, the one that’s convinced her I’m worth her while. But as grand as I look, I’ve no money for more, so I thank her and wander on.
    My steps lead me to a stone church with a short, squat tower. There’s something oddly familiar about its shape and that big wooden door, the stone arch carved with triangles. I walk closer. Like a blurry cinema reel coming into focus, the triangles sharpen, and all of a sudden I realize what they are: three rows of birds’ heads, their beaks pointing worshipers inside. And there, along the doorjamb, stands a familiar dragon, a bold knight on his horse—why, it’s my church, the one I pass every day on my way to Mr. Greenwood’s house! But here in my dream, each bird’s beak ends in a fine point, and each eye is bright, as if they were carved only yesterday.
    My church. And so this is my town, but as it might have been in the Middle Ages. Now I know why my feet knew every turn of the road. I might as well have been walking from Mr. Greenwood’s to the grocer’s!
    I hug