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Her brown hair escapes its pins around her face. Shadows bruise the skin beneath her eyes. When she smiles, the expression appears assembled from memory.

“Fiona.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I did not know you were coming.”

“Neither did I until this morning.”

Her gaze jumps toward the southern entrance of the market. A K’sheng merchant stands two rows away speaking to a cloth seller. Nessa turns back so quickly that her sleeve knocks a measuring spoon onto the counter.

I catch it before it falls.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

The answer arrives too quickly.

I set down the spoon. “You look ill.”

“I have been working.”

“That excuse sounds better when your hands are steady.”

She presses both palms against the counter. “I am tired. The winter trade has been poor.”

Her ledger lies open near the spice bowls. Several figures have been scratched out so hard that the parchment is nearly torn. A K’sheng interest mark appears beside the newest total.

“Has the merchant increased the debt?” I ask.

Nessa closes the ledger. “I can manage it.”

“You said that before I left.”

“And the stall is still here.”

“So are you, barely.”

Her fingers resume their restless work. She aligns packets that are already straight, shifts one bowl half a hand to the left, then returns it to its first position.

I take the folded decree from my basket.

“I brought news,” I say.

“From the keep?”

“From the kitchens.”

That earns a trace of her old attention.

I spread the parchment between us and show her the Morwen’thir seal. “Rhysandir changed the household contracts. No shift can exceed ten hours except during an emergency. Workers receive the full ration assigned to their labor regardless of race or caste within his workforce.”

Nessa reads the copied terms. “He agreed to this?”

“He made it house law.”

“Because you asked?”