Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [57]
She found herself at the edge of the row, in front of a small cart filled with vials of different-colored liquid. Behind it was a small white-haired woman in a flowered housedress. The woman smiled when she saw Hazel, and leaned toward her. “I have potions for you,” she whispered.
The woman’s eyes twinkled like a grandmother who’d announced she’d made cookies. Hazel could not help but look. Maybe there would be something she could use—something to put the white witch to sleep, or maybe a luck potion. Something. She had no payment, of course—unless the old woman was a Joe Mauer fan.
“What do you have?” Hazel asked.
“Mine are the best, you can ask anyone. I specialize, see? This row is for people, over here is events, and this row is for time. I can brew these for you if you’re looking for something particular, but that’s extra.”
Hazel blinked. “A potion for . . . events or time?”
“For forgetting,” the woman said, as if this was obvious.
“Oh,” said Hazel. “I was looking for, like, a luck potion?”
“Oh,” said the woman, like she had specially made chocolate chip and Hazel asked for oatmeal. “You won’t find anything like that here.”
“I guess I’m okay then.”
“Are you sure?” The woman looked at her appraisingly.
“Yes,” Hazel said, moving away.
What was she doing? She had no business looking for magic potions. She needed to sleep, and then she needed to find Jack. She was so tired that she was ready to curl up, right there in the marketplace, and let all the potion-seekers step over her. Her eyes traveled around the marketplace, looking for some idea of where to go. And then she saw someone who looked familiar.
Hazel walked over to where the performers were, past the saxophonist and the orator. At the very edge of the square was the dancing girl, and standing a few feet away was the woodsman Hazel had seen earlier that day.
Hazel went over to join the small group watching the dancer. Just then, a woman broke away from the group, shaking her head. The woodsman turned his head to watch her go. His eyes fell on Hazel.
“Some people just don’t like ballet,” he said, smiling.
His brown eyes were kind, just like a woodsman’s should be. He looked a little like Jack’s dad—he even had the same lines under his eyes—and the thought softened Hazel’s heart. She gave him a little smile.
Her eyes went to the dancing girl. She was beautiful, with blond hair and big green eyes. She moved like the most elegant ballerina, like she could fly if she set her mind to it. There was no music, but it didn’t seem to matter. The way she moved, Hazel heard the yearning of strings.
And then Hazel gasped. On the girl’s feet were the red shoes.
She couldn’t believe it. Someone had left them in the road and the girl had found them. They were magic. Hazel knew that when she saw them. And if she had picked up the shoes, she could dance like that.
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” the woodsman asked.
Hazel nodded, eyes on the shoes.
“My daughter was a dancer. She was very good, too.”
“Oh.” Hazel shot him a glance. She did not know whether he was using the past tense because his daughter no longer danced or because he no longer had a daughter, and she feared the answer.
“She gave herself up to it. Sometimes people get so focused on things they don’t see the world around them. That’s what I’m trying to tell people. It isn’t easy.”
Hazel nodded, though she didn’t know what he was talking about. She was very tired. She needed to ask him for advice, that’s why she’d come over.
“Do you like her shoes?” he asked suddenly.
Hazel nodded.
“Everyone does,” he said, sounding a little sad.
Hazel was confused. Didn’t he leave them? She watched the girl dance, bending and stretching and leaping. She noticed that there was sweat on her face and her expression was not of beauty or elation but something like pain.
“She looks tired,” Hazel said. Though maybe she was projecting.
“She’s been dancing