“And us?” I asked, though I already assumed the answer.
“She needs clothing from this century.” Branrir waggled a finger at us.
“Why can’t you go with Quinn?” I asked, leaning close to Thistle.
She frowned at me. “Because even if I went with you, doesn’t that tether mean you have to stay together anyway?”
And though I knew she was right, I couldn’t halt the grumble that followed.
Thistle tossed me a pouch of coin. “Don’t let her come back looking like a royal ghost.”
“Hey!” I objected. “She’s not the only one here with a reputation.”
“Yours could only stand to improve,” Vesper quipped.
They disappeared into the crowd before I could argue. Quinn didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
Now I had to help her find clothes while pretending I wasn’t memorizing every time her hair caught the wind.
This was going to be a long day.
Quinn eyed a rack of dresses; a tactical problem she hadn’t quite solved. Before I could offer help—or make things worse—a vendor with the largest mustache I’d ever seen swooped in with a flurry of questions about fabric, fit, and “appropriate modesty for a young lady on the road.”
That left me standing awkwardly beside the changing stall as Quinn was handed an armful of options and vanished behind a curtain that looked one gust of wind away from surrendering to gravity. I leaned one shoulder against the post beside the changing stall, pretending I wasn’t counting the heartbeats between the sound of fabric rustling and silence.
Deeper in the market, patrons haggled over dried fish. A bell clanged. None of it touched me. My entire world had narrowed to a thin sheet hung on a rickety rod, hiding Quinn from view.
I hated how aware I was of her on the other side.
Her soft footfalls on the creaky boards.
The faint hiss of her breath when she tugged at something too tight.
A quiet murmur I couldn’t make out—maybe cursing at buttons, maybe cursing me for standing out here like an idiot.
I should’ve moved. Given her space. Found an excuse to study a rack of cloaks across the aisle or argued with the shopkeeper over the price of satin. But my boots stayed planted, arms folded, guarding the entrance to a cloth sanctum I had no business defending. The shopkeeper gave me the look of a man who’d seen this kind of trouble a hundred times. He puffed at his pipe and offered no comment. Probably saving his breath for when he overcharged us later.
The curtain whispered as Quinn shifted inside.
Locking my arms across my chest, I exhaled low and slow. This was ridiculous. I was being ridiculous. We were here to buy clothes, not think about the fact that if I closed my eyes, I couldpicture the pale slope of her shoulder perfectly. I could summon the melody of her laugh from memory.
I was in trouble, and the worst part? I didn’t want to be saved.
The curtain rustled, then drew back.
I choked.
Quinn emerged in what could only be described as the outfit’s foundational layer. A thin linen shift glided over every curve, making it abundantly clear this was not the final look. It brushed the tops of her knees. Her arms were bare. Her freckle-dusted shoulders caught the sunlight. And she looked…
Saints.
She looked like she’d waltzed out of a portrait you kept hidden beneath your bed instead of hung on your wall.
“Uh,” I croaked, dragging my gaze upward with the kind of mental force usually reserved for battlefield strategy. “That is the base layer.”
She blinked. “I do not understand.”
I gestured vaguely, doing everything in my power to maintain eye contact. “The shift. The chemise. Whatever you want to call it. That’s…the part that goesundereverything else.”
