I hesitate, my fingers tracing the edge of one of the silks spilling from the bundle. “Do you know of a woman named Fortune?”
Her brow furrows.
“She’s…” I falter, searching for the right description. “A performer, maybe. Someone important.”
“An unusual name…one I would remember.” She gives a small, regretful smile. “Can’t say that I have heard of her. But I hope you find who you’re searching for.”
The woman steadies the pack against her hip and moves back toward the tents.
Something tugs at the back of my dress. I glance down and nearly shriek.
A miniature donkey stares up at me with enormous brown eyes rimmed by long lashes. The skirt of my dress is clenched between his teeth, silk drooping out of his mouth. He chews happily, unbothered by my horror, his jaw working in slow, contented circles.
Perched on his back, like a queen on her throne, is a cat with lemon-yellow eyes and smoke-gray fur, sleek and gleaming despite the desert dust.
“Hey!” The donkey tilts his head, long ears turning toward me. I yank the damp fabric free, and strings ofspit plop onto the sand. “Absolutely not. Do I look like your salad bar?”
The cat flicks her tail and curls it neatly around her paws as she sits on her steed, and my annoyance dissolves in an instant. “Oh my goodness,” I gush, reaching out in what I’m sure is a universal gesture ofcan I pet you?“Aren’t you gorgeous?”
The cat slowly raises one paw. Holds it there. Then—whap. A hiss slices the air as her claws skim my knuckles.
I jerk my hand back with a gasp, staring at the faint red lines blooming across my skin.
Tarek jogs over with Declan close behind. Declan drags a forearm across his brow, wiping sweat from his face, then runs his palm down the back of his neck. His black button-down is plastered to his chest, clinging to every line of muscle. In the sunlight, the damp fabric gleams like ink poured over steel. For one delirious second, I completely understand straight men’s fascination with wet T-shirt contests.
“I see you met Cinder,” Tarek says cheerfully, interrupting my mental drooling. “Keeps the caravan clean of pests. But she is rather…” He tilts his head from side to side as if weighing his options. “Picky.”
“Picky?” I echo in time to watch Cinder abandon glaring at me to launch straight into a purr when Declan reaches out. She presses her head into his palm like they’re old friends.
I scowl. Cats like me. They always like me. In third grade, my next-door neighbor’s Maine Coon used to follow me to school every single day and wait for me to get out. I was basically “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” only “Amanda Had a Very Large Cat.”
The donkey brays softly and butts his wet nose against my thigh.
“Oh no you don’t.” I sidestep quickly.
Tarek grins as he scratches the donkey behind the ears. “And this is Fennel. He chooses his friends wisely.”
Declan chuckles, stroking Cinder’s back. The cat all but liquefies under his touch, eyelids closed in bliss. “Guess this smart girl can tell who the difficult one is.”
I frown. “Ass.”
Fennel brays loudly.
Tarek claps his hands together, loud enough to make me jump. “On to our next task!”
Before I can ask what it is, he takes off toward the stacked amphorae. He hauls one up with ease, then thrusts another into my arms. The clay is cool against my palms but heavy enough that my knees wobble.
“Each of you delivers one, and then there will be no need for a second trip. Teamwork!” He grins and claps me on the back. Water sloshes over the rim of my urn and splashes my feet.
“Delivers one where?” I demand, hugging the amphora tight to keep from spilling more as Declan takes his without complaint and holds it with one strong arm like he was born to be a farmer.
“Why, the market, of course!” Tarek calls, already marching down the aisle.
We follow him to another stretch of open sand where silk ripples overhead in shades of scarlet, saffron, and vermilion. The air here in the market is hazy with smoke from stalls offering hand pies, spiced meats, and roasted vegetables. At the center of the market, a circleof musicians weaves a lively rhythm from drums, lutes, and the high, reedy trill of a pan flute.
A stall keeper stirs bubbling pots, the broth spitting and hissing as it splashes onto open flames. A glassblower blows molten orbs into beads that glow like captured suns. One stall is stacked high with rugs in every pattern and hue imaginable, while another gleams with the same golden candlesticks and pentacles I helped unload earlier. At a stall overflowing with dates, figs, pomegranates, prickly pears, and apples, Tarek waves us over.
Behind us comes the steady clop of small hooves. I don’t have to look to know Fennel has followed, Cinder perched on his back, the donkey’s cat-clad shadow following mine.
