As she descended from one of the show wagons, she realized it was 6 months since she joined the troupe. How good to be away from her shunning by all but a few of the villagers.
These had been busy months. How to turn her special gift of remembering into entertainment of a sort that wouldn’t brand her as a witch. They came up with several clever acts that might be believable as “magic.” There would always be a hand signal, a gesture to take away the illusion. Should keep her away from the stake.
As to womanly duties, she was hopeless. Cooking, sewing, laundry were strange magical dark arts to her. She was better with a quill and ink than with a pot and a spoon. “Another flaw to grapple with,” she thought.
With a piece of parchment, she had traded for a recitation of Chaucer, she became the troupe’s counting house. Careful more ducats came in that went out.
Fingering the rosary her mother pushed into her hand as the wagons pulled out, she found it hard to keep the tears back. Her mother would now suffer the pitiless stares and constant gossip.
As a child, she wished she couldn’t remember the minutiae. Wished that her memory wasn’t a window that never was shut nor shuttered. Now. Now she understood more of why her mother thought it a special gift.
(This is a part of a short, short, short story cycle beginning with Remembering.)