"It's obvious your father is looking for something," she said, as the two of them settled down for the night in the opulent main wagon. Gilbrick's ventures into the last village had taken so long that they didn't leave until the first hint of sunset. The merchant caravan had traveled until dark and set up camp.
Quite frankly, Merrigan couldn't understand why they didn't camp along the road every night and save the coins that an innkeeper would charge. The wagons were sturdy and snug, the long couches served quite well as beds, they had plenty of food, and Gilbrick's cook was a sight better than many of the cooks in the inns they had frequented so far.
"What is he looking for? He never comes back with anything, though sometimes he seems quite pleased. Perhaps whoever he was talking to gave him clues in his quest?"
"Papa is seeking magical cloth," Gilda said in a whisper, her eyes shining. "Cloth too beautiful to behold. Fine enough that an entire bolt will pass through the eye of a needle, yet strong enough it can withstand arrows and swords."
"I should think clothes made from such cloth would be very uncomfortable. If it acts like armor, I imagine it would ventilate like armor, too." Merrigan's nose wrinkled up just at the thought of the stink. "Besides, how would you cut that kind of cloth to make clothes? All it would be good for is to use as a tent, and even then you couldn't stake it down against high winds because you couldn't pierce it to attach the stakes."
Gilda stared at her for several seconds. Then she burst into tears. Merrigan couldn't quite muffle her sigh as she put an arm around the girl and patted her back. Gilda was ordinarily a cheerful creature, yet when she did cry, she could go on for hours. It was best to comfort and distract her as soon as possible.
One of these days, she's either going to flood us out with her copious tears, Bib observed, or her howls will attract wolves or orcs or something much nastier.
Merrigan couldn't muffle her chuckle, but Gilda didn't hear over her sobs. Soon enough, though, she got the girl to wipe her eyes. There was something almost amusing about Gilda in tears. Her explanation for why she was crying usually turned out to be silly enough to make even Gilbrick laugh, and he took her far more seriously than anyone else.
"What did I say to hurt you?" Merrigan had learned early that taking some blame on herself made Gilda calm down more quickly, because the sweet, silly girl wouldn't let anyone say anything against Merrigan. Even herself.
"Oh, you didn't—I mean, you did—oh—"
She sniffled and rubbed at her eyes and dug through a low box tucked under the couch until she found an enormous handkerchief, which she used to blow her nose. Merrigan found some comfort that while Gilda's face didn't get swollen and red when she cried, she blew her nose loud enough to call dragons out of the sky.
"It's the cloth. If my father ever succeeds in finding the cloth of his dreams, well ... I know he'll spend everything he has to obtain it, and then what good will it do him if he can't use it for anything? Oh, Mistress Mara, you're so incredibly wise. You must help me protect my father. I adore him so, but sometimes he just lacks for common sense. It frightens me."
Now that's saying something, Bib said.
You—hush! Merrigan muffled her laughter into a cough, and set about comforting Gilda. She promised to try to think of something to help her keep Gilbrick out of trouble.
Unfortunately, she proved to be very little influence on Gilbrick on the long, wandering journey back to Williburton. She tried to convince him that if the cloth in the local market wasn't remarkable, then someone weaving in a tumbledown shack out in the forest likely couldn't produce anything worthwhile. The argument never seemed to work. Gilbrick insisted that obscure, remote locations were more likely to have the magical cloth of his quest. Sometimes he found cloth that changed color to reflect the mood of the wearer, but it wasn't durable or waterproof or didn't go through the eye of a needle. Once he found cloth fine enough to go through the needle, but when daylight touched it, it faded into mist, along with the hunchbacked man who wove it. Twice, Gilbrick learned of someone who was reported to spin thread to be woven into the hoped-for cloth. Each time he got there, a prince had arrived ahead of him, freed the spinner from an enchantment, and carried her away.
Merrigan wondered sometimes why she had agreed to help Gilda, other than to prevent more weeping. Perhaps she was falling ill, because no sensible person could actually be fond of such a silly girl, could they? Merrigan did find some satisfaction in convincing Gilda that less was more when it came to the ribbons, bows and flounces on her clothes. The simpler her gowns became, the more elegant and mature Gilda appeared and acted. By the time they came within sight of Williburton, Merrigan suspected a silliness spell had been put on the girl by some business rival of her father.
The caravan stopped for the noon meal in the high mountain pass looking down on Williburton. Merrigan, Gilbrick and Gilda were discussing arrangements to set up Merrigan in her
