Nothing.
That deep, velvety voice echoes in my head, its blunt, frosty blow against my ear leaving a cool shiver that stretches all the way to my pinched nipple.
Further.
Heart rioting, hand coming up to brush the pebbled skin on the side of my neck, I scan the churning crowd, searching for a shock of black hair and silver eyes.
I swallow, shake my head, and shove the echo of rich baritone somewhere so deep it can’t play with my strings and muddy my mind.
Not real.
Spotting a stall selling dusted dough balls akin to Cook’s honey buns, my heart aches.
I approach, drawing a hungry inhale. The smell is similar—creamy and rich with the scent of honey, but sweeter.
I look at the price boldly displayed on a plank of wood hanging from the bottom of the cart:
Chip. I wonder what that looks like. And where I can get five of them without having to beg at Cainon’s feet again.
I push on, passing stalls selling toffee apples, impeccably carved glass flower figurines, meat sticks glazed in something dark and dripping, mulled wine that smells like cinnamon and cloves and is stirred in a cauldron big enough for me to crawl inside. There’s another stall spilling a small forest of simple wooden racks across the cobbled ground, each packed with handmade cloaks that look like they would’ve takenweeksto sew.
I pull one free, folding back the front panels.
Fully lined, a deep hood, lots of little pockets to keep things in …
Zane.
It’s the perfect replacement for the one I lost. And a perfect excuse to find out where he lives and pay him a visit.
A warm feeling floods my chest as I imagine him unwrapping it, boasting that lopsided smile when he tallies up the pockets.
Gliding the hangers across the rail, I carefully sort through the stock, finding one—onlyonethat’s the perfect size for him.
I have to have it. Need to have it.
The store owner sweeps past while I count the pockets, his attention poking at me like the pointed tip of a sword. “You have any coin, boy?”
I turn, catching his shrewd stare.
Shit.
My mind whirrs, fingers curling around the cloak’s hem.
I’m worried that if I’m forced to come back for it later, it’ll be gone.
An idea explodes, bursting my chest full of warmth.
“I have somethingmuchbetter,” I beam, digging through my knapsack. I withdraw a small parcel and peel back the layers, holding it out.
The shopkeeper looks down. “Astick?”
“Cutting,” I clarify. “It’s called Vasil Alione. It’s very rare. If you dry it, then steep it in hot water, it forms a paste that can be used like a waterproof bandage, but it has many … other … uses ...”
I trail off when a deep dent forms between his bushy brows, like he’s disgusted at the very sight of my offering. He looks me square in the eye, and I’ve never felt so small.
“Are youdaft?” he belts out, and the commotion surrounding us stills.
“I— I …”
