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necessary part of my job.”
    â€œAnd what is that, exactly?” I inquired.
    At this, the expression on his face, which had seemed highly changeable at first, settled down and became one I recognized: surprise.
    â€œHave you never seen a tinker before?”
    â€œWhy would I be asking if I had?” I said, then flushed, for that was twice in a row I had been rude now. But the tinker did not seem to take offense. Instead he simply tilted his head to one side, as if he were a bird and I a worm he was trying to figure out the best way to tug from the ground.
    â€œWhat is your name, young one?” he inquired.
    â€œRapunzel,” I replied. “And I’m thirteen, just so you know.” And it was only as I felt my name in my own mouth that I realized that I had never had to answer this question before, for no one had ever inquired of me who I was.
    To my surprise, the tinker’s face changed once again, this time growing as flushed as mine. His hands tightened upon the reins still resting in his lap, so that the horse that pulled the wagon whinnied and tried to back up into the wagon itself. At this, the tinker dropped the reins, got down from his place, and moved to the horse’s side. He soothed her with gentle voice and hands and produced a carrot from deep within some hidden pocket.
    â€œYou are skilled in plant lore, then?” he asked at last. His face had resumed its former color, though he did not look at me again. Instead, his eyes intent upon his task, he offered the carrot to the horse on one flat palm.
    I gave a snort.
    â€œFar from it. As a matter of fact, I’m completely hopeless. I’ve just spent the morning yanking up every single carrot in the garden. Not on purpose, though,” I added quickly.
    At this, the tinker’s face began a war with itself. I realized what the battle was about when he lost it and began to smile.
    â€œPerhaps I might interest you in a packet of seeds, then,” he suggested, as the horse finished up its treatand began to nuzzle at the tinker’s legs for more. “To help you recover from your losses of this morning. To have no carrots is a terrible thing. What will you do for stew in the wintertime?”
    â€œThat’s a very good question,” I said. “And one I’m sure Melisande has been pondering.”
    â€œMelisande,” the tinker echoed. “That is your mother?”
    â€œNo,” I answered honestly. “But I love her as if she were, which makes her much the same thing, I suppose. If you will step around the back of the house, I will take you to her, and draw you a dipper of water from our well. You must be thirsty, and your horse as well. If you come down our road, you have come a long way, even if you weren’t trying to end up in the town.”
    â€œWell said,” Melisande’s voice suddenly floated across the yard. “I’m pleased to see you finally remembered your manners.”
    At the sound of her voice, the tinker looked up and found the place where Melisande stood with his eyes. I held my breath. The tinker held the sorceress’s eyes. And it seemed to me, in the moments that followed, that I caught my second glimpse of sorcery.
    The very air around us seemed to change, solidifying and becoming thick and glossy. It reminded me of the pieces of glass that Melisande and I had swept up last winter, when a limb from one of the apple trees had come loose and been blown all the way across the orchard, only to come crashing downagainst the windowpanes of our greenhouse. The broken pieces were just the way the air was now. Thick and clear enough to see right through, but also sharp enough to cut you.
    â€œGood day to you, sorceress,” the tinker said finally.
    â€œAnd to you, traveler,” Melisande responded. “You have come a long way, I think.”
    â€œI have,” the tinker acknowledged. “But I do not mind the miles, for I think that, in