A Tinker’s Toss
Image by enriquelopezgarre from PixabayPhillipe stood in the shadows beneath her window, hoping for
just a glimpse.
“Brenna,” he whispered. Just a prayer. Wishing her to
appear, even just in silhouette.
He had planned to marry her. This very eve, he’d acted upon that
plan. For six lean months, he’d saved every penny, skipping most meals, eating
what others threw out—only when nobody saw.
But a tinker’s apprentice made little indeed, and twelve
shillings fourpence farthing was a poor dowry to present any girl’s father.
His plan would change all that. The tanner’s son taught him
cards, and told him where he could play his earnings against others.
The room beneath the docks smelled of cigar smoke and damprot.
He watched the tables, studied the game. He waited. “The drinkers bet higher on
terrible bluffs as the night wears on,” his friend has said.
A hacking cough startled him from his studies, drawing his
attention to a black-robed figure, nearly blending into the dark corner near
the door. When the coughing ended. Phillipe returned his attention to the games.
When a seat emptied, Phillipe sat down. He placed his meager
fortune on the table, and the man dealt him into the circle.
Four hands later, he held only the farthing. His plan had
failed. He trudged toward the door when the hooded figure grabbed his wrist. “You
wouldn’t know it boy, but I’m rich.” A coughing fit began again, dragging on,
but the grip held. “One coin toss,” the man finally said. “If you win, my
fortune is yours.”
Phillipe imagined proudly seeking Brenna’s hand. “And if I
lose?”
“You instead will have my death.”
So, now Phillipe stood in the shadows beyond the lamplight. His labored breathing coming in rasps. Then Brenna was there, just long enough to close her drapes, and he would have done it all again.
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