Peck the blacksmith was saying to Topher. I had just walked into the stable, but somehow I knew right away he was talking about Chav and Baval and Chavali. “Thieving Gypsies. They can call themselves what they like, I know a Gypsy when I see one.” He sounded angry. His big arms bulged with muscle as he banged a shoe onto a quarter horse named Termite because it chewed on wood. “Them dark faces and sly eyes. They can’t fool me. You better lock everything up, Worthwine.” That was Topher’s last name. Peck’s last name was Fischel, and besides being the horseshoer he was the farmer next door. “You better tie down what you can’t hide. They’ll steal the weathercock off the barn if you ain’t careful.” “I ain’t missing anything,” Topher said quietly. “Who?” Minda demanded. “Who steals?” She had just walked in. It was Saturday, and we were going to go for our Saturday ride. “Them Gypsies,” Peck said without even looking up. “Camping in the old Altland place.
