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self-control.
    â€œYou got your end, mate? Ready now . . . hold fast!”
    Forsooth, wherever I went would be less comfortable than my childhood home, and I would miss Albertina every day. Like as not, the farmer or the orphan-master would be just as cruel as Father, and what with hard work and little food, I’d be trading a quick death for a slow one.
    Instead, I wrapped my arms around the cages and hung on tight.

6
    â€œHeave ho!”
    The sailors Piet and Lobo lifted the pallet with me on it and moved toward the wharf’s edge. All the while, the hideous goose gnawed my knuckles. I ground my teeth and ran through recipes in my mind: orange goose, goose with pistachios, stuffed goose with prunes.
    â€œOh, misery is the lot of man!” sang Piet.
    â€œOh, misery man , ” sang Lobo.
    â€œHe drinks his gin whenever he can!”
    â€œOh, misery man . ”
    My arms ached. The ropes around the stacks dug into my belly. The goose grew tired of my knuckles and moved on to my hair.
    The pallet stopped.
    â€œSteady now, mate, lay her down easy,” Piet said.
    The cloth had slipped a few inches, and I couldn’t see out the hole. I heard water slapping against pilings, the scrape of oars against wood, a shoe landing heavily in a boat. I determined that their ship was moored out in the harbor and we were about to row to it.
    â€œOn three. One . . . two . . .”
    The pallet wobbled in a nauseating fashion and the birds squawked and flapped. I couldn’t blame them. Somewhere deep in their birdie brains they must have known they were headed for the pot. Was I as well?
    â€œHandsomely, there! Steady as you go!” Piet urged. “You want we should load ’em one by one?”
    â€œI have it,” grunted Lobo. “Just give me a minute.”
    Stuck in the black, I held my breath while the sailors found their balance and got the boat under way. I fumbled with the sailcloth. Where was that hole?
    â€œMind the buoy,” Piet murmured.
    â€œYou’re worse than my old grandmother, you know that?”
    â€œI’m just sayin’, a young newbie like you, you might miss—”
    â€œI may be but sixteen years and new to the Lion, Piet, but trust me, amigo, I’ve eyes like a fat hawk.”
    â€œEasy now, hawk,” Piet said. “Bring her under the mizzenmast.”
    I found the hole. Through it I could see Lobo’s back and the side of a ship, blackened with tar.
    â€œHoay, O’Brian! You ready for us?” Piet called.
    â€œReady and waiting on you, mate, since two bells,” answered a boyish voice from above. “Where you been? The taverns—”
    â€œI ain’t been dogging it, if that’s what you mean to say. Heave her over, mate!”
    A heavy rope landed in the boat, followed by a lot of jostling and orders from Piet as he and Lobo tied the pallet to some kind of pulley.
    â€œIt’s made!” Piet called out. “Hoist away!”
    The pallet jerked up and hovered. For a long, sickening moment, it tilted heavily to one side, and only the ropes around the sailcloth kept me from sliding out. If I’d had any dinner, it would have baptized Piet and Lobo.
    â€œPiet!” the sailor O’Brian shouted. “D’you let the newbie stow this lot?”
    I realized it was my weight that had unbalanced the load. Quickly, I jammed myself between the two middle stacks of cages.
    â€œNothing wrong with our stowin’, mate. Must be your rigging,” Piet shouted back.
    Level now, the pallet rose, and me with it, slow and unsteady. I was wedged so tightly I couldn’t take a full breath. The birds shrieked and flapped. Minutes crawled by and we climbed higher, until finally we swung hard over.
    â€œEase her down nicely now,” O’Brian said to another sailor.
    The pallet thudded heavily onto the deck of the Lion, and O’Brian and the other sailor untied it from the pulley. Would they