The Milliner's Secret by Natalie Meg Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

round to find a pickled-walnut face staring at her from under a hat resembling a dented stovepipe.
    The woman turned Cora’s hand palm up. ‘Tell your future, lady.’
    ‘I’ve got no money.’
    The Romany woman chuckled. ‘I know that. All you had has been taken.’
    That took the wind out of Cora. If this woman had the gift, and was offering a palm-reading for free . . . Cora put her handbag on the grass and splayed her fingers. ‘All right, Mother. Will I get out of the hat factory? Will I ever get a spark of fun in life?’
    The woman stared down intently. ‘You’ve a long life path. You will spend your life making.’
    ‘Making what?’
    ‘With your hands. Stitching. Shaping. For others.’
    To Hell with that, Cora swore. Today had taught her something. She wanted to wear hats such as the one she had on, or like the German cow’s trifle topping. Wear , not make. She wanted to swan about with nice-looking men. Wanted money in her purse and some in the bank.
    The Romany said flatly, ‘You will pursue love.’
    ‘Pursue it how far?’ Sheila Flynn must have a much bigger head than hers, Cora thought, because the feather hat was slipping backwards again. She couldn’t straighten it without breaking the gypsy’s grip. ‘Take a look at my love-line.’
    ‘It is unclear. It is severed.’
    Cora blew a stream of air upwards. Feathers were tickling her brow.
    ‘I see children.’
    They always said that, these women. I see a cradle, a blue one and a pink one . It was all tosh.
    ‘You will kill.’ Eyes sharp as vinegar met Cora’s.
    ‘That’s enough.’
    The woman dropped Cora’s hand and walked away. A second, even older, woman came forward, hand out. ‘Shilling.’
    ‘I said at the start, I’ve got no money.’
    The crone pointed to the grass. One of Sheila Flynn’s gloves lay beside the bag and Cora realised she was expected to hand it over. And its twin, obviously. ‘They’re not mine,’ she said.
    ‘A shilling for a palm reading,’ the woman insisted.
    This could go on all day. Cora gave up the gloves – they were the sort easily bought at a draper’s, after all, but the crone thrust them back, rasping, ‘Betrayal!’
    Cora inspected them. They looked pretty innocent to her.
    ‘Can I help?’
    She greeted Dietrich like an old friend. ‘I’m embarrassed, but you wouldn’t have a shilling on you?’
    He took a two-shilling piece from his pocket and the crone pocketed it, then stumped away. Obviously they didn’t give change round here.
    ‘She wouldn’t take my gloves so it would have been my shoes.’
    Dietrich considered her in silence. The sun burnished his hair and it burst on Cora that, yes, she had seen him before. In the Catholic cathedral of St George, Southwark, where her father had taken her as a child. There’d been a little side window she’d loved to stare at while the rituals of the mass went on over her head. A golden chalice had stood in the embrasure, bathed in light streaming through stained glass. The window depicted a knight entangled with a dragon. ‘You’re my St George,’ she said.
    ‘Riding to your rescue with a shilling? You were right about Mid-day Sun. I take it you did not back him in the end? Otherwise, you would not be short of cash.’
    She groaned. ‘It’s a long story. What about you?’
    ‘Each-way on Le Grand Duc. Only a few pounds, though.’ Only a few pounds . How the other half lives. ‘You believe that fortune-telling nonsense?’
    ‘Just a bit of fun.’ Cora shrugged.
    ‘It did not seem so much fun a moment ago. You looked sick, like a wounded raven.’ He lifted her feathers and she flinched.
    ‘“Raven” isn’t very complimentary. Ever seen one close up? Beady eyes and a bloody big beak.’
    He laughed. ‘They are majestic and intriguing birds. And highly portentous. Don’t they hold the survival of the Tower of London under their wings? But, all right, not a raven, a blackbird. Decidedly inferior. I’d rather be a