Before her, the market spilled out in every direction. Row after row of tables lined up beneath canvas awnings strung with softly glowing lights, despite the early morning hour. The tables sagged beneath the almost aggressive abundance of flowers they held — flowers of every color piled high, buckets overflowing, petals spilling to the ground, being crushed underfoot and releasing their sharp, sweet odor. It was beautiful.
It reminded her of the Makers’ Mart at home in Cambric Creek, which she had loved attending. The fae flower market was so abundant that Silva could easily see herself spending the day wandering up one aisle and down the next, luxuriating in the fragrant beauty of all the flowers, sniffing fresh blooms, buying more than she could carry.
She stopped short, shaking her head. That thought wasn’t hers, and she didn’t like the implication of it being placed in her head so easily.Because that’s what they want. They want you to take your time. They want you to linger. Time isn’t free; nothing is here. You need to keep moving.
Voices filled the space. She could hear the low hum of conversations, the occasional peal of bright, high laughter, bargains being struck, and flowers being sold. There were bodies moving all about, but Silva had a hard time fixing her eye on any of them. A prickling sensation moved up her arms, and shewondered if any of the slightly blurry forms moving around her were real.NPCs. Like this is a game, probably. That’s typical. She didn’t feel the danger that the treeline of Winter had posed, though, and Winter’s court hadn’t terrified her the way that dark forest with its oversized moon had. This place was bright and cheerful, entirely benign . . .and that’s what makes it more dangerous.
As she moved beyond the first table, Silva became conscious of a slight pressure at the back of her skull. It was as if someone was gripping the back of her neck, not strong enough to hurt, guiding her along.This way,it seemed to urge. She shook her head again and forced her feet to move in a different direction.Not today, faeries.
The flowers on the tables weren’t any that she recognized as existing in her world. Roses with too many petals and tightly coiled centers, lilies that hummed in harmony as she passed, vines hung with bell-shaped blossoms waving in a non-existent breeze, their dark purple interiors smelling sweet and inviting. Pots of climbing vines with tightly closed blooms, labeledNight-Blooming Secrets. They were all beautiful, their stems thick and their leaves a healthy, waxy green.
Borrowed beauty, Silva thought. Transient and expensive.Spring borrows what Autumn will demand repaid. She would never look at flowers quite the same way again.
Fresh Blooms, she read in a loopy handwritten script, glancing down to the riot of color on the table beneath, double-trumpeted daffodils, dahlias the size of dinner plates, greens she couldn’t identify . . . but when she glanced back up, the sign had changed.Last Chance.
Gripping the sides of her dress, Silva forced her feet to continue walking.Keep your hands to yourself, she thought, fisting the material of her skirt.Don’t touch anything.
“First time here?”
She jumped at the voice, the first distinct one she’d been able to make out since entering. The man was at a table to her left, leaning with an almost studied casualness. He looked to be near her age, and the rolled cuffs of the linen shirt he wore were stained green. His smile was easy-going, his expression one of carefree serenity. As she turned, Silva watched his too-blue eyes move over her, taking in her bump. He said nothing, but she felt a prickle, as if she’d been silently cataloged.
“First time,” she confirmed, keeping her own voice light and easy, Silva of the Daytime poise. “I’m just looking.”
“Everyone says that,” the man laughed. His hair was the color of early spring honey, and his ears were nearly as long as her own. “Don’t worry, this is a place to sample. Take the time to find something you like.”
His smile was still too broad, his demeanor too casual. Silva tightened her grip on her skirt.They’ll have to do better than that.
“I’m not here for flowers.” She kept her voice guarded.Ignorance will not survive on this side. She needed to choose her words carefully, more carefully than she had in Winter. “I’m looking for someone, someone in particular.”
The man’s eye brightened in interest, and he leaned forward over his table. Silva struggled to remain in place, even though her body desperately wanted to step back in response to his increased nearness.
“Information is more expensive than flowers, lovely girl. Are you interested in making a trade?”
Here we go.She took another moment before answering, considering her options.Don’t make an offer.Just a statement. “I don’t trade time, and I don’t trade memories.”
When the fae man smiled again, Silva took a step back at last. Gone was the benign glamour.He’s trying to scare you. His teeth were sharp and pointed, like Tate’s. Sharp, but small.Small, not at all dagger-like, and easily counted.Remember what I told you, dove. I’m the scariest thing in the dark. She forced herself to breathe, straightening up, smiling grimly.You’ve been bitten by worse than that. It’s going to take more thanthatto scare us, jerk.
“Those are good boundaries,” he chuckled. “You came prepared, sweetling. Whatareyou willing to part with, I wonder?”
The implication of his words made her skin crawl. Silva took another step back, giving him her own tight-lipped smile in return. She didn’t owe him an answer, she decided.
“I’m just looking,” Silva said again, forcing her feet to continue walking.
Table after table, she kept moving, unsure of what she was seeking at this point. It seemed unlikely that she would receive a straight answer from anyone here.
She paused before a table of tiny white blossoms, edged in cotton-candy pink. They were sweet-smelling, and her little wing turned restlessly, as if she wanted Silva to move closer. Compared to the larger, showier flowers she had passed, these were almost precious in comparison, each stalk holding a scattering of the lovely little blossoms and a dozen more tightly closed green buds.
“What are these?” Silva asked the girl behind the table, gesturing to the adorable miniature blooms.
The fae girl behind the table would be the perfect recipient of the item she’d brought to trade, still wrapped in the tissue paper in which she’d been given it, weeks earlier at an estate sale she’d been browsing with her mother-in-law. This vendor, too, looked nearly a child, smiling sweetly from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. Her golden curls were bound in girlish pigtails, each tied with a white-and-pink ribbon to match her flowers.
“They’re promises. Is there anything sweeter in the world than a fresh promise?”
The fae girl giggled into her hand at Silva’s confused expression.Secrets and promises. No wonder everything is expensive. Nothing here was as it seemed, and the price of their wares was likely more than they let on.
“And what are they after they bloom?” she asked, thinking once more of the Winter Queen’s words about Spring. Around them, the low hum of voices stopped, as if the entire market were listening, coming to a halt at the audacity of Silva’s question.
The girl’s smile dimmed, her face hardening ever-so-slightly. “They become obligations,” she admitted tightly.
