Page 47 of Fierce Highland Magic

She should hesitate.

She should assess him, distrust him, calculate the odds of whatever he was about to do. She should walk away if walking away were remotely safe.

But the market's listening note grew louder.

A stall nearby opened its shutters with a low wooden creak. Inside, someone began arranging little silver chains on black velvet.

Rowan stopped and looked back.

"There is a path ahead," he said. "It is not free."

Lyra's gaze sharpened.

"Nothing here is."

"No. But this particular path is willing to pretend otherwise until it has you halfway through."

"What does it cost?"

"I don't know yet."

"That is not acceptable."

"It is, regrettably, the current market standard."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you intend to do."

Rowan considered lying.

He could tell her he intended to negotiate. He could call it a reconnaissance. He could promise to return with options and let her believe he had no intention of spending anything substantial.

Every version of the lie formed easily.

He knew how to make them sound kind.

But Lyra had just stood at a memory vendor's stall and given something irreplaceable without turning the gift into a weapon against the person she saved.

She had not asked Nessa to stay. She had not asked her to be grateful. She had not even asked the market to remember what she had done.

The memory of it sat uncomfortably beneath his ribs.

Not like guilt. Like a hinge shifting.

"I intend," he said slowly, "to see whether I can purchase us passage through the next stretch."

Lyra's face closed.

"With what?"

"My own resources."

"No."

The answer arrived instantly.

Rowan blinked.

"You don't know the price."