“Well why didn’t you say that to begin with?”
“Because oranges won’t be in season for at least another month, and I assume it would be some time after that before you would get them here from so far south.”
The merchant gave her an appraising look, then furrowed his considerable brows. “Those won’t taste good either unless you have a plan for what to do with them. Sour as Satan, they are.”
Niamh fisted her hands, suppressing a scream of frustration. It had been a long time since she’d had to buy from anyone other than the merchants who frequented Thurles.
“Are you going to sell her what she wants or not?” Dallan’s low voice interrupted, irritated and possessive. It sent a tremor of heat coursing through her.
“I would love to, but I don’t have any orange peels left. As she said, we’re at the end of last season’s stock for them.”
Dallan looked about ready to jump over the wares and do battle with the bothersome man, so Niamh hurriedly spoke up. “I see youdohave some cinnamon.” She pointed at the aromatic sticks. “How much for them?”
“Six shillings a pound, they are. Or a third pound of silver, if you’ve no shillings.”
Niamh’s mouth fell open. “That’s thievery!”
“They’re a premium spice.”
“I bought some a fortnight past for two shillings per pound, not a day’s ride from here.” Niamh didn’t mention that the merchant she’d bought from was now buried next to the church in Thurles.
The merchant laughed—a sound Niamh could go her entire life without hearing again. “That man lost money.”
“I’ll pay three and no more.” Even that was more than she’d wanted to spend, but the spice had a multitude of uses, not only for Alva but for many other conditions she treated.
“I won’t sell for less than four.”
Lord, but this man was trying her patience. “I have never, in ten years, seen them priced higher than three.” Normally she would’ve walked away, but Alva was counting on her.
“Would you rather make three shillings or lose a sale?” Dallan interjected tersely.
Niamh worried the man wouldn’t budge and they’d have come all this way for nothing. What would she do to keep helping Alva? She’d have to figure something else out.
After prolonged grumbling, he mumbled an agreement, taking her silver and weighing out her pound of cinnamon.
As they turned from the stall, Niamh beamed up at Dallan. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I don’t take kindly to merchants trying to swindle my friends,” he growled. “Just ask Finn.”
They made it to the beginning of the path up to the keep, a few steps from the market square, when Niamh stopped in the middle of the road.
“What’s wrong?” Dallan asked, stopping beside a cloth merchant’s shop and turning to face her.
Niamh looked first at the wooden walls of the shop, then at Dallan. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her conversations with her mother and Eva. So much so that she was now considering just getting this over with so she could move on with her life.
“Why do you want to know why I left?” she asked.
A flurry of emotions passed over his face in rapid succession. Confusion. Understanding. Irritation. Hope.
When he didn’t answer, she offered more of an explanation. “What I mean is, to what end do you wish for this information?”
Still nothing. In fact, he appeared to not even be listening, though he was looking directly at her.
“Dallan?”
Recognition lit his face and he grimaced. “I’m so sorry. I thought I heard something. Could you say that again?”
“I asked why, after so long, you still want me to tell you why I left.” She didn’t try to hide her irritation that, of all their conversations, this was the one he couldn’t be bothered to listen to. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
