“It is.”
People—everyone—openly stare at us. They’re used to seeing me and keeping a wide, though respectful distance. But seeing me with someone? A woman in bright pink in this sea of gray turtlenecks and black trousers? Their new queen from the other side of the barrier?
That’s not shiny and new. That’s disruptive.
And it makes me smile.
Chelsea gapes as we approach. I’ve been here so many times it’s hard to see the place with fresh eyes, but I try.
Above the stalls is an arch that’s straight out of a medieval castle. The gray stone hangs overhead like flying buttresses on a cathedral, crisscrossing in a web to keep the rain and mist out.
A low fog rolls over the path, and sellers call out what they’re selling—from magical trinkets to rugs to exotic food.
We pass a woman selling scarves, and Chelsea runs her fingers down the black silk. “So beautiful.”
“It’s made of shadow silk,” the woman tells us. “Maybe His Highness will tell you about it.”
Chelsea lifts her brows. “Shadow silk?”
“From dream spiders,” I explain. “Very rare.”
“Rare and beautiful,” the old woman tells her with a toothless smile.
Chelsea pauses. Her gaze flicks from the old woman to the scarf, and though the scarf is beautiful, I don’t think that’s why she’s pausing.
It’s because she thinks the woman needs money. Buy it for Chelsea. Do it.
For once I agree with Nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t bring any?—”
Before she can say the wordmoney,I place several bills on the table. “Is this enough?”
The woman’s eyes widen. “More than, sir.”
“Keep the change.”
Chelsea shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you buying this?”
“It’s yours,” I tell her before turning away.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
We walk in silence, and I wonder where our earlier ease went. It feels like for all the progress we made this morning, while we were each dressing, we turned back inside ourselves and closed off to one another.
And I want that ease back.
We walk on, approaching a stall that’s heavy with rugs. Chelsea pauses to look at them, all the while fingering the shadow silk scarf that she wound around her wrist.
What I wouldn’t give to be that scarf,Nightmare murmurs.
I’m about to reply when a big man lumbers into the stall, slamming into it hard enough to make it pitch forward. For a split second it balances on two legs. Then it plunges down, straight toward Chelsea. I grab her around the waist, lift her, and set her safely on the other side of me. The stall hits the stones and breaks apart, sending pieces of wood scattering across the market.
“Sir, are you okay?” the owner asks.
I ignore him and focus on Chelsea. I’m still holding her, and she weighs nothing. She gazes up at me, her lips parted, her eyes brimming with fear, and then ever so slowly, the fear fades and is replaced with…
“Thank you,” she whispers.
