Arran came up behind her and huffed a loud, concerned breath. “Gypsies. Some wayfarer trying to take advantage of the fair.”
From his tone, she had the sense that he did not care for whoever occupied that tent.
“But is no’ every merchant here taking advantage of the fair? What makes this person somehow less?”
Arran shrugged. She pressed forward into the gloom, and Arran followed close on her heels. His hand dropped to the sword hilt above his belt.
“No’ that they are taking advantage, but these types, they sell falsehoods and fake goods. If I buy a silver ring from a merchant, ‘tis silver. If I buy it from one of these wayfarers, ‘tis most likely lead.”
She puffed out a doubtful breath. “Ye sound as jaded as I. Come on.”
Making her way through the haze, she found the purple tent and its opening. Pale lamplight cast its incandescent glow that spilled into the alley and it was bathed in shades of purple, blue, and black, like a fairy cave from one of Fiona’s stories.
“Adaira,” Arran pleaded.
She lifted her hand and gave him one of her fake smiles. While she appreciated his worry, she would be less than five steps away. “Ye can wait out here, or right at the opening. I shall see what they are selling and rejoin ye.”
Arran pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. A real hint of a grin tugged at her lips as he appeared to be pouting. “I will give ye five minutes, and if ye dinna return, I am going in and dragging ye out.”
Adaira blinked at him. “So ferocious. I shall be quite fine.”
Then she entered the mysterious tent.
Instead of glinting goods or foodstuffs, Adaira’s curious gaze found a scarf-draped table and a woman, also scarf-draped, sitting on the far side. A lantern rested on the table, providing a bright ring of light in the small space. A black curtain was at the woman’s back, possibly leading to another part of the tent or a rear exit.
The woman gestured to the low stool on Adaira’s side of the table.
“Ye come seeking answers? Have a seat here.”
The woman’s voice was low, rumbling, like a large stone rolling down a moss-covered hill. It was also commanding, and Adaira did as she bid.
Adaira settled on the stool. “Are yeceàrdannan? Like a tinker?”
The woman, who seemed ageless but for her wrinkled hands, gave her an assessing look, followed by a tight-lipped smile.
“I’ve been called that. I’ve been called many things. But I think ye are called to find an answer.”
“How do ye know I want to find answers?”
The woman looked her up and down, her dark eyes like the evening sky itself. “Beautiful blonde lassies are not cloaked in sadness. If they are, then they are seeking answers.”
Adaira’s face did not shift at all. If naught else, the woman was astute.
Maybe she can tell me why Sawny left, or what I should do now that he’s been gone.Give me some guidance.
Because it felt like she had none. She was a small boat adrift in the ocean, and she required a sextant.
Perchance this woman was that — her guide.
Ifthe woman could see anything or give her any answers.
In truth, Adaira doubted she could. To her, there were no answers.
Curly black hair and a swath of purple scarf spilled across the woman’s shoulder as she held her hand over the table. Her thick knuckled fingers were devoid of any adornment. This woman’s hands were for business, not for pleasantries.
“Let me have your hand,” the woman commanded.
Adaira again did as bid, placing her right hand in the woman’s palm. The woman’s eyelids lowered as she studied her palm, tracing the lines with a fingertip in the circle of the lantern’s glow.
