Page 7 of Fierce Highland Magic

As my car rolled beneath it, the silver thistle in my pocket gave one sharp pulse against my heart.

The gate swung shut behind me.

And someone on the other side said, very softly, "At last."

Chapter Two

Lyra

The old woman's hand appeared in front of me before I had taken three steps into the market.

She held a small silver cup.

Steam curled from it, carrying the scent of honey, apples, and something warm enough to feel like a kitchen at dusk.

"For the tired one," she said. "For the traveler who came so far."

I did not take it.

The cup was beautiful. That was the problem.

Nothing beautiful had ever wanted anything from me without a reason.

"I'm fine," I said.

The woman's smile sharpened at the edges.

"Of course you are."

Around us, the market pressed close. Lanterns drifted overhead in blue, violet, and green. Music threaded through the square—fiddle, pipes, a low pulse of drums—and beneath it all came another sound.

Listening.

I could not have said how I knew it was there. The stalls did not have ears. The bright little tents did not lean closer when I moved. The people passing me did not stop.

But the market had noticed me. Everywhere I looked, faces turned away a fraction too late.

The old woman held out the cup.

"For the cold."

"I'm not cold."

Rain had soaked through the shoulders of my jacket. My hands were chilled. My hair was wet at the nape of my neck. The cup smelled like the exact thing a person should accept when she had been stranded in a storm and deposited in a night market run by people who might or might not have hooves under their boots.

The woman's fingers were long and pale around the silver.

"One sip," she said gently. "No traveler should enter empty-handed."

There were answers a person gave automatically.

No, thank you.

Thank you, but—

The first word rose in my throat.

A hand closed around my wrist.