‘I certainly hope not,’ I answer, leading us down the seafront. I pause, looking at Biba. ‘That was very clever and brave of you to think of that. Hopefully you won’t have to do something like that again. Do you understand?’
She nods, her expression serious. ‘Only help a little.’
Windswept shopfronts line the boardwalk, and someone sweeps sand from their stoop. Biba drags on me, slowing her pace to take in the stream of folk in the streets. I struggle to focus as voices float past on the wind, accented Nishian and strange song-like tongues I don’t recognise. At last, I hear Nishian proper, someone arguing with an outsider.
‘How can I best make myself understood—’ and then the voice shifts into another language, and the outsider laughs, responding in kind.
I stare, trying to find the source through the crowd. Eventually I find them: a person tall and plainly dressed, but the quality of the material is obviously good even at this distance. They are standingin their doorway, pointing to something in the shopfront to the outsider, a potential customer. I can’t read the sign above the door, but as we pass by the smell of fresh baking overwhelms me. It is at odds with the shape in the shopfront, square and under a thin silk cloth. By Paranish, do they sell books?
The shop owner can no longer ignore our idle stares. No doubt they think us outer isle folk too gormless to know better. I’m sure my black eye and busted lip don’t help.
‘May I help you?’ they ask.
Biba is looking past them to find the source of the smell.
The stranger softens when they see Biba.
‘After your breakfast, aye?’ And then adds: ‘Take a seat while I settle up here, would you?’
Their warmth and candour is disarming, and I can’t help but do what they say.
The front of the shop is lined with shelves, all stacked high with books. The smell of wood mingles with the baking, and we linger, trying not to touch anything. Biba seems reverent, her eyes drinking everything in. She reaches out to a plant wilting in the front window. The stems dance at her presence, as if her touch were water reviving them. I grab her hand and urge her towards a corner near the back. Here I’m on more familiar ground: a wooden table in a nook near a warm stove and display cabinets where rows of fresh cakes, pastries, and pies sit steaming in the morning sun.
‘Business concluded, on to breakfast.’ The shopkeeper claps their hands as they join us in the back. They smile kindly at Biba, who is stealing a glance at the cabinets. ‘Do you know what you’d like?’
‘She’s a bit tuckered out,’ I admit. ‘It’s been a long journey.’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘The Spring Isle.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard it’s lovely there,’ they say politely. I’m not sure what is particularly lovely about the Spring Isle, perhaps simply the novelty of it. ‘Welcome to Umasa. I’m Morna.’ Morna makes the corresponding hand sign to indicate she. She pushes her hair behind her ear, and I finally catch the small blue ribbon braided into her hair.
‘Ris and Biba,’ I respond.
‘How about I plate you up a few of my favourites?’ She smiles.
Biba nods and Morna disappears behind a counter, talking cheerfully as she gathers up an assortment from the display.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ I say, as Biba takes a seeded bun from the plate as soon as it’s set down.
‘Open it like this to let out the steam,’ Morna says, putting her hands around Biba’s and gently tearing the bun in half. She licks the golden filling from her fingers as she waits. ‘Salt and sweet,’ she informs me.
‘What brings you to the mainland?’ Morna asks conversationally, tidying the kitchen area.
‘To celebrate the royal birth,’ I say, feigning excitement.
‘You’re a bit early.’ Morna laughs. ‘Although I suppose babes come when they like. But not before Magliyab, I imagine.’
Biba is tugging on my sleeve, and I see half the plate of treats is little more than crumbs and sauce. ‘Mama, is this who you’re looking for?’
I shush Biba and take a flat cake and nibble at the edges.
Morna busies herself and I can tell she’s trying not to eavesdrop, but my cheeks burn. I look at the books in the other alcove of the shop. ‘That person you were speaking with, I hope we weren’t disturbing?’
Morna takes the opening. ‘No, it’s a pleasure to have more folk interested in the book trade now our docks are open.’
‘You seemed to know their language.’
