Tansy Wearne’s Sweating Cheeses

Tansy Wearne had offered a tenth of a drop a span for herself and her basket at Haverstoke Landing, because that was what passage had cost all morning, and because she had done the sums twice on the cart. Then the hills went silent. No bell from the Kilnrows, no runner, nothing. The far bank stayed where it was. Her soft cheeses, wrapped in dock leaves and wet cloth, began to sweat in the noon heat, and the gate filled up behind her with people who had their own reasons to be across.

When House Foundry’s bell finally came, the wait had run to most of an hour, and the gate-clerk, Absalom Prewitt, read out the new terms with the face of a man who expected to be shouted at. Three drops and more a span to make this boat. Those who had bid early and cheap stood aside. Brannoch Vell’s carters went down the plank with the purse already counted.

Tansy watched the boat leave without her. Then she unwrapped the first cheese, pressed a thumb into the rind, and smelled it turning.

She could raise her offer and cross on the next link, and sell at Tallowmarket for less than she’d paid in passage. Or she could sell here. She cut the cheeses into wedges on the gate-post and called the price low, and by the time the next bell rang the basket was empty and she was walking home lighter, a little poorer, and done waiting for anyone’s lamps.