Page 42
A shift in the wind brings a sharp chill, causing a shiver to run down her spine. Pulling her arms from the stone railing, she wraps them tightly around her torso for warmth. She realizes then that she could have worn one of her larger gowns this morning, something heavier that might have protected her from the cold more properly.
The competitive cries of women selling their wares cut through the air, drawing her attention toward the bustling rows of stalls. Stepping down from the bridge, she follows the vibrant sounds, realizing the market expands much further into the lower city than she originally anticipated.
“Get your honeyed tarts!” a woman calls, her voice carrying through the street.
“Come here and get your very best spice and seasoning!” another man shouts soon after.
Elara looks ahead and realizes there is far more beyond the bridge than she first noticed. More stands stretch along the roads further ahead, lined closely beside one another. Spices, flower seeds, small packaged snacks, fresh pastries, dolls, figurines, and powdered toppings are arranged carefully across wooden tables beneath hanging signs and fabrics. The stands are close together, creating narrow paths between them where people move shoulder to shoulder. They struggle through the crowded paths, carrying paper bags and baskets filled with whatever they purchased.
The dense trade displays offer a perfect invitation to continue exploring, though the surrounding chatter softens noticeably the moment her boots cross into the narrow paths. One by one, the stand owners notice her. Their voices lower, and their attention follows her movements openly. She continues walking and pretends not to notice while observing the goods displayed around her. At one stand selling freshly baked cupcakes, a woman offers her a bright smile.
Her red hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a hairband, and her black dress sways gently in the wind against her light brown skin. “Your Highness, please, you must try a fresh cupcake today,” the woman says, gesturing to her display. “I would gladly bake a large cake for the palace, should you require it.”
Elara shakes her head. “There is no need. I am only observing.” She moves on.
A young man stands behind another table covered in wooden boxes filled with different powdered toppings, each unique scent blending into the crisp winter air as he waves a welcoming hand toward her. He offers her a nervous smile the moment she passes, and Elara returns it before continuing further through the market.
Soon, she notices a quieter stand tucked away from the others, where books are stacked and spread across a wooden table. Some are piled neatly while others lay open to display their covers. There is no owner in sight.
Curious, Elara steps closer, scanning the titles until one catches her attention. Letters Beneath the Moon is written across the cover in delicate silver lettering. The book is bound in deep blue leather, its edges worn from years of handling, while a painted crescent moon stretches across the center beneath a scattering of tiny stars. Two figures stand beneath it, their silhouettes separated by a narrow river of silver, as though the story itself is about distance, longing, and everything left unsaid.
An attempt to retrieve the volume causes the entire stall to shift unexpectedly, the table bumping against her hand to rattle the surrounding collection before a soft, startled exclamation echoes from below.
Elara pulls her hand back immediately.
A young woman rises from beneath the stand itself, straightening so suddenly she nearly bumps her head again. A white scarf wraps around her head, concealing her hair, ears, and neck entirely. The style reminds Elara of Asma’s scarf, both in appearance and purpose.
The woman looks close to Elara’s own age. Her skin is pale against the dark fabric she wears, while her eyes are a deep brown, large and expressive despite the nervousness gathering within them. Her face is round and soft, carrying emotions she seems reluctant to voice aloud. A long black garment drapes smoothly along her body, buttoned carefully from collar to waist without a single wrinkle visible. “I am sorry,” the woman says, bowing her head and avoiding Elara’s eyes entirely.
Concern crosses Elara’s expression. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” the woman nearly falters before swallowing to continue more carefully. “My apologies, Your Highness. Would you like a book? These are all free.”
“Really?” Elara asks, her heart filling with excitement.
The woman nods with a shy smile. “Yes, I am giving them away because my father from Zah—” She stops abruptly. Her eyes widen as she looks up at Elara, almost like she has already revealed too much.
Elara’s concern deepens, though before she can respond, the woman hurries to explain, her words spilling out in nervous haste.
“I only meant that my younger sister does not want them anymore, so I wanted to give them away. We even tried selling them for almost nothing, but people still complained and harassed us.”
“I apologize,” Elara says softly.
“There is no need, Your Highness.” The woman gestures toward the book Elara has been admiring. “Do you like this one?”
“Yes, it seems very interesting.”
“Then please, take it.” The woman nods, her smile growing more certain. “It belongs to you now.”
Before she can draw her hands back, Elara’s gaze slips to the corner of the wooden table, catching on a small volume bound in deep forest-green leather. It is a blank booklet, its pages thick and tightly bound, unblemished by ink. Her heart drops with a pang of guilt as the visual memory of Cael’s raw, split knuckles and the silver quill tracing directly over his wounded skin flashes behind her eyes.
She remembers scolding him by the white lilies, demanding he stop staining his own skin to write his words. A necessity takes hold of her chest. He lacked his booklet in that environment, meaning she had inadvertently stripped away his only immediate means to communicate. Fingering the green leather, she realizes she wants him to have it, providing another volume to pour his silent thoughts into so he no longer has to cause himself pain.
“May I take this one as well?” Elara asks softly, her voice carrying a trace of hesitation.
The woman nods. “Of course, Your Highness. Take whatever brings you joy.”
Accepting both offerings, the dual weight settles into her palms. The green booklet feels like a quiet confession of her own growing concern for this mysterious prince, a tangible piece of care for a man whose hidden sacrifices she is only beginning to understand.
