Miss Lightfoot agitated a napkin in front of her face like a fan. “I’ll take a plate to Mr. Ginger,” she said overloudly. She slopped spoon after spoon of beans from the pot in quick succession.
“Now you’ve gone and upset Ruby,” complained Bess, wiping her beard with her fingers.
“Please, let me,” I said, rising to my feet. I tried to take the plate from Miss Lightfoot before food overflowed the sides. I didn’t think of her comfort entirely; I was eager to talk to the two-headed man and find out more about him.
“I don’t know, sugar cake,” she said. “He’s a reserved gentleman.”
“Oh, let him, Ruby,” said Bess. “Abel’s a well-bred lad. Mr. Ginger may take to him.”
Miss Lightfoot sighed and let go the plate.
A blanket hung across the back of the wagon. I tapped on the wood of the frame. “Excuse me, Mr. Ginger. I have your supper.”
“Who’s that?” came a timid query. “I don’t know that voice.”
“I’m new,” I answered, “and an admirer of yours.”
“Admirer?” he whispered. “You admire me?”
“My parents raised me to respect the unusual,” I said.
“Then, they are unusual in themselves,” he answered.
I chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Rustling sounds came from inside. “Perhaps you could give me an idea,” he said. “Do come in.”
As I entered, he slid some sheets of paper into a portfolio on top of a small folding table. The draft from my entrance caused one sheet to fly. I caught it as it floated to the floor. It held a fine watercolor likeness of Miss Lightfoot, if she had no scales on her face.
Mr. Ginger stared at me aghast, in stark contrast to the second face attached to his forehead, which appeared to be fast asleep. “Please, don’t tell her,” begged Mr. Ginger. “I should be embarrassed.”
“But it’s excellent,” I told him. “I’m sure she would be flattered.”
He lowered his eyes. “The others would laugh,” he whispered. “I don’t care to be mocked.”
“Of course not,” I said. “No one does.” I knew then that if Miss Lightfoot became my ally, Mr. Ginger would follow. I found surprising comfort in this.
As Mr. Ginger reached for a tumbler of murky water and paintbrushes, the eyes of his second head opened. Mr. Ginger overshot the glass, and his sleeve almost knocked it over. “Drat,” he said. “Edward is awake.”
I tilted my head in question.
“We seem to have mixed-up vision,” he explained. “When Edward opens his eyes, my sight becomes confused. I don’t know what Edward sees, for he is incapable of telling me.”
“Why don’t you cover his eyes with your hand?” I asked.
“He nips,” said Mr. Ginger. “I do wear a hat sometimes, but that’s dreadfully hot in the summer.”
The second nose must have smelled food, for the little mouth below it dribbled. Mr. Ginger knew somehow and reached up to dab it with a handkerchief. The fluffy tuft of hair on the second forehead moved like a cockscomb in response to the wrinkling of the tiny face.
“If you will excuse me,” said Mr. Ginger. “I am more comfortable dining alone.”
I hated to see him so timid of me. “You know, I grew up with show folk like yourself,” I said. Maybe that would put him at ease with me. “May I come back to tell you about it?”
Mr. Ginger’s primary countenance brightened with a smile. “I should enjoy that,” he said.
“Honey pie,” said Miss Lightfoot when I returned to our campfire. She appeared quite recovered. “Would you do me a favor and come put cream on my back? I would ask dear Bess, but she has retired, and I’m itching out of my skin.”
“Urn …,” I said. What kind of invitation was that?