Page 25 of Fierce Highland Magic

One more closed account.

One more number added to a total that had stopped being countable years ago.

The market breathed again.

Music resumed.

Lyra stood very still beside me.

"What was that?" she asked.

"The hour," I said. "The market keeps time differently."

"That did not sound like a clock."

"No, it was a bell. Excellent auditory discrimination."

"What does it count?"

There it was.

The question I could not let near me.

"The hour," I said again. "The market keeps time differently."

Then I walked ahead before she could ask again.

My hand remained closed at my side.

I didn't look back.

Chapter Four

Lyra

"A true memory," the vendor said. "Nothing less."

She was small and sharp-featured, dressed in layered gray that moved like smoke when she shifted. Her stall was narrow, crowded with glass bottles no bigger than my thumb. Each one held something luminous: pale gold, silver mist, a wash of color that might have been dawn or might have been something stolen from it.

I didn't look at the bottles.

"I have money," I said.

"Mortal currency is decorative."

"I have—" I stopped. Calculated. Started again. "What qualifies as a true memory?"

The vendor smiled. Her teeth were small and even, which made the expression worse.

"Something you would miss."

Behind me, Rowan said nothing.

He had said nothing for the last three minutes. This, apparently, was the sort of lesson a person had to purchase on her own.

"What if I described a memory without naming it?"

"Then I would have a description and you would have nothing."