“I keep thinking I’ll blink, and it will be gone,” Darina says.
“I know,” I say. “So do I.”
It’s the most magnificent place I’ve ever seen.
Osric stays a step behind us. He never crowds us, but every time the walkway narrows, or a group of Scorpii walks toward us, he’s at my shoulder. People part to let us through. He guides us with few words – “Left here,” “Mind the step,” “This terrace has the best stalls” – and Darina and I go wherever he points.
We pass jewelry laid out on dark cloth, hammered silver, combs and rings carved from pale bone, beads of venom-glass in green and amber that shine where the light crosses them. Sacksof spice stand open in rows, red, gold, and rust brown. Dried desert fruit hangs strung on cords. There are knives with bone handles, jars of oil, bolts of rough cloth, and stall after stall of things I can’t name and can’t look away from.
We reach a corner stall under a double layer of shade cloth, and I stop in my track when I see the silks on its racks. The fabric here is finer than anything I’ve seen in Concord, and my family always bought the best. An older Scorpii woman keeps the stall. She watches Darina and me with open interest while we look but says nothing.
I linger at one bolt of silk. It’s deep green, dark in the folds and brighter along the roll, and it changes shade whenever the light moves across it. I touch one corner, and it slides under my fingers with almost no weight. I make myself move along the rack, but I still come back to it twice.
“You keep returning to that one,” Osric says behind me.
“It’s the finest silk I’ve ever touched,” I say. “I’m only looking.”
“Let me buy it for you.”
I turn and look up at him.
“You don’t have to buy me anything.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “It’s nothing. I’d like to give you this small pleasure.”
“It isn’t nothing. It’s costly, and I already owe you…”
“You owe me nothing,” he says. “It would please me. That’s all it is.”
I was taught the script for this: decline once, decline twice, and when the giver insists again, accept with grace, because refusing past that point becomes an insult. They’re my mother’s rules, and for once, I’m glad to follow them.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very kind.”
I’m stroking the silk absentmindedly. Osric looks along the stall for the vendor and reaches for the bolt to show her which one he means. His hand comes down over mine.
I freeze. His hand covers mine completely, fingers and half my wrist under his palm. I always assumed his shell would feel cold. It doesn’t. It’s warm, smooth, and the warmth of it seeps into my skin. Neither of us pulls back. I don’t know why he doesn’t. I know even less why I don’t. Heat rises in my face, and I blame the sun.
Then he removes his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. The vendor approaches, and it’s too late.
“This one,” Osric tells her.
“Good choice,” she says. “How much of it?”
“Enough for a dress.”
Darina comes around the end of the racks.
“Enough for a dress,” she repeats, smiling wide. “I’ll sew it for you myself.”
If she saw what just happened between Osric and me, she doesn’t show it. She had her head down among the fabrics the whole time.
I feel an unexpected pang, because a dress means staying long enough to wear it. It means being here when it’s cut, fitted, and finished. It means making myself comfortable in Osric’s home. I accept the gift anyway, because I want it.
“I’d love that,” I tell her.
