Page 44 of Fierce Highland Magic

He smiled. It was a reflex.

A good one, usually. Smiles changed the environment of rooms. They convinced people you were less dangerous than you were. They made questions feel rude. They gave everyone permission to walk past the truth without naming it.

Lyra looked at his smile and waited. The reflex failed. Rowan let it fade.

"I don't know enough to tell you," he said.

That, at least, was true.

The thistle had come through the Green Woman's path. It had reached Lyra before the market opened. It had drawn blood, marked her, migrated from pocket to collar as though it knew where it belonged.

And the thought of following any of those facts to their conclusion felt like placing his hand on a blade.

He had spent years not opening certain doors in his own mind.

That did not mean they had disappeared.

"I will tell you when I do," he added.

Lyra's eyes searched his face.

He had the terrible, immediate urge to look away.

He did not.

At last, she nodded once.

Not trust.

Not forgiveness.

A temporary decision to let the question remain alive.

"Fine," she said. "But I am not forgetting."

"I would be disappointed if you did."

"You would?"

"Not exactly. It would be convenient. But I've learned that convenient things in this market are usually dreadful in retrospect."

Her mouth tightened.

Then, just barely, it softened.

Not a smile.

Close enough to one that his chest went light—abrupt, inconvenient.

He looked away before he could investigate why.

The fox-faced vendor had moved closer.

He stood at the mouth of a side lane now, half-shadowed beneath a striped red canopy, his lacquered mask turned in their direction. His gold scale rested in one gloved hand. The empty pan swayed gently, though there was no wind.

The vendor raised his chin.

"Prince," he called.