A sword, slender and silver, disappeared slowly down Otho the juggler’s throat. Delicately, precisely, he allowed the crosspiece of the hilt to rest upon his lips. He raised his hands. Shouts of praise rose from around the fire. The older boys whistled. Otho, head tilted toward the night sky and hands upraised, turned in a slow circle so all could see. At last, his right hand rose and gently gripped the sword’s hilt. He drew it from his throat in one swift, smooth motion. The calls and whistles redoubled.

“Claire, what did you think of that?”

Claire took her mother’s hand, leaned against her shoulder.

“You’re a tired one. I’ll call your papa to walk you to the caravan.”

Claire rubbed her cheek against the fur collar of her mother’s cloak. She felt warm and drowsy here close to the campfire. She did not want to be alone in their wagon. There had been wolves on the hills last night, their howls like spikes of black iron.

“Claude,” her mother said,“your daughter is falling asleep.”

Claude leaned close,“Are you, Claire? Otho is going to eat fire in a moment. You want to see that, don’t you?”

Claire nodded.

Jeanne shook her head.“We go into Strasbourg tomorrow. Twenty men will eat fire at the market fair tomorrow night. What will she do then when she’s too tired to stand?”

“Oh, Jeanne,” said Claude,“a few moments more. Paul is still by the fire. Claire won’t want to be alone in the wagon without her little brother.”

Jeanne conceded,“A few moments, then.”

Claire smiled and squeezed her mother’s hand.

Jeanne murmured,“A few moments only.”

Flames leaped up. Big wheels on the caravans glowed like orange moons. All the traders had drawn their wagons close together, all most into a big box. At one end of the box, oxen and horses swayed in their sleep. Their big-muscled rumps and backs looked like distant hills. Claire yawned.

Flames leaped up. Otho strode into the center of the circle of watchers. He flourished three torches. The traders, their wives, their children called out to him, urged him on.

Claire heard her little brother shout,“Have a care, Otho, your beard will make a fine torch, too!”

Otho grinned at him and tossed the torches into the air. He juggled them, faster, faster. The torches became a wheel of fire inside a larger wheel of shining eyes. A drum began to beat. Clapping hands joined in. A pipe played sweetly, madly from the other side of the fire and the flight of torches became a dance. Claire yawned again, more deeply.

Flames leaped up.

Dawn was close when Claire awoke. She moved warm robes aside and shivered. The October cold was sharp. Still, she needed to visit the edge of camp and drink from the stream. She crawled past Paul. He was sleeping heavily and did not