woman, you will not buy enough here today to waste this bauble’s worth. Tell the stallkeepers to have your purchases sent here.”
“Thank you, sir.” She bobbed a small curtsey and let Friday drag her away before he changed his mind.
At Trix’s insistence, Sunday pulled a few chits out of the velvet bag. She handed them to him with a stern warning. “Absolutely no buying more cows, or trading for more beans, or riding centaurs...”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd.
From stall to stall, Sunday watched her sister haggle over scraps and trimming. For all her good nature, Friday drove a hard bargain—perhaps Mama’s traits hadn’t completely passed her by after all. It didn’t take long for the fascination to wear off, however, and Sunday let wares in other stalls catch her eye. Such distraction was in itself a luxury; the very poor couldn’t afford to let browsing get the better of them.
Friday refused to carry the purse—a fact she used as a bargaining tool—so Sunday did her best not to wander far. She lingered by a goldsmith, missing both her golden bauble and her friend, while Friday cheerfully argued the finer points of lace. A woman heavy with child sat behind the stall, fanning herself despite the cool morning. “You’re very pretty,” she told Sunday.
“Thank you.” Sunday wasn’t used to compliments.
“Can I help you find something?” The woman placed a hand on her lower back and began lifting herself out of the chair.
“No, please.” Sunday held up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid your wares are a bit too extravagant for the likes of me.”
The woman smiled in relief and settled back down. “I know what you mean,” she said. “We can scarce afford to make them. But they are nice to look at, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Sunday admitted. She was having a hard time looking away. The necklaces and bracelets were simple and elegant. The rings were intricately detailed and set with small precious stones. Judging by the woman’s ragged gown and paper fan, she and her husband were forced to concentrate more on quality than quantity. It was a wise decision—the smaller pieces demanded a closer look and so stood apart from other stalls’ bland accoutrements.
“Sometimes I imagine they’re all mine,” the woman’s voice whispered softly in her ear. “As though I’m a princess.” Sunday was so caught up in the designs, she hadn’t noticed the woman stand and move across to her. Her wide-set violet eyes twinkled, and a lock of ebony hair escaped her kerchief to curl dramatically against her fair skin. She must have been a pretty young girl; since she was now burdened with child, being a princess would ever remain a dream. Sunday pitied the woman and wanted to buy something. Would that really be so terrible? Grumble had known she would have to sell the golden ball to save her family, but surely he would have wanted her to purchase something for herself, a token by which to remember his kind gesture.
Sunday’s hand hovered over an exquisite comb. She did not recognize the small stones set in the bridge, a blue so pale it almost seemed white. The etching around the edges was particularly fine ... Sunday bent closer. The tiny runes called to her. She could almost make out her name written among them. The woman picked up the piece, and Sunday wished she were holding the comb in her own hand. “Would you like to try it on?”
Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted more. She had to touch the comb. She needed it. It was hers. It had been made for her. Could other people in the crowd not hear it singing her name? She stretched out her unworthy fingers to take the magnificent object.
“Oooh, what have you found?” Friday’s chipper voice snapped Sunday out of her trance; the bump of her hip made Sunday miss the comb as she grabbed for it. “What a beautiful brooch. Sunday, did you see
“Thank you, sir.” She bobbed a small curtsey and let Friday drag her away before he changed his mind.
At Trix’s insistence, Sunday pulled a few chits out of the velvet bag. She handed them to him with a stern warning. “Absolutely no buying more cows, or trading for more beans, or riding centaurs...”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd.
From stall to stall, Sunday watched her sister haggle over scraps and trimming. For all her good nature, Friday drove a hard bargain—perhaps Mama’s traits hadn’t completely passed her by after all. It didn’t take long for the fascination to wear off, however, and Sunday let wares in other stalls catch her eye. Such distraction was in itself a luxury; the very poor couldn’t afford to let browsing get the better of them.
Friday refused to carry the purse—a fact she used as a bargaining tool—so Sunday did her best not to wander far. She lingered by a goldsmith, missing both her golden bauble and her friend, while Friday cheerfully argued the finer points of lace. A woman heavy with child sat behind the stall, fanning herself despite the cool morning. “You’re very pretty,” she told Sunday.
“Thank you.” Sunday wasn’t used to compliments.
“Can I help you find something?” The woman placed a hand on her lower back and began lifting herself out of the chair.
“No, please.” Sunday held up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid your wares are a bit too extravagant for the likes of me.”
The woman smiled in relief and settled back down. “I know what you mean,” she said. “We can scarce afford to make them. But they are nice to look at, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Sunday admitted. She was having a hard time looking away. The necklaces and bracelets were simple and elegant. The rings were intricately detailed and set with small precious stones. Judging by the woman’s ragged gown and paper fan, she and her husband were forced to concentrate more on quality than quantity. It was a wise decision—the smaller pieces demanded a closer look and so stood apart from other stalls’ bland accoutrements.
“Sometimes I imagine they’re all mine,” the woman’s voice whispered softly in her ear. “As though I’m a princess.” Sunday was so caught up in the designs, she hadn’t noticed the woman stand and move across to her. Her wide-set violet eyes twinkled, and a lock of ebony hair escaped her kerchief to curl dramatically against her fair skin. She must have been a pretty young girl; since she was now burdened with child, being a princess would ever remain a dream. Sunday pitied the woman and wanted to buy something. Would that really be so terrible? Grumble had known she would have to sell the golden ball to save her family, but surely he would have wanted her to purchase something for herself, a token by which to remember his kind gesture.
Sunday’s hand hovered over an exquisite comb. She did not recognize the small stones set in the bridge, a blue so pale it almost seemed white. The etching around the edges was particularly fine ... Sunday bent closer. The tiny runes called to her. She could almost make out her name written among them. The woman picked up the piece, and Sunday wished she were holding the comb in her own hand. “Would you like to try it on?”
Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted more. She had to touch the comb. She needed it. It was hers. It had been made for her. Could other people in the crowd not hear it singing her name? She stretched out her unworthy fingers to take the magnificent object.
“Oooh, what have you found?” Friday’s chipper voice snapped Sunday out of her trance; the bump of her hip made Sunday miss the comb as she grabbed for it. “What a beautiful brooch. Sunday, did you see
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