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I notice because I am watching for illness. The reaction lasts only a heartbeat before she reaches for my arm.

“Not here,” she says.

Her grip is unnaturally tight.

“Nessa.”

“The rirzed near this row is poor.”

She pulls me away from her stall. Her fingers press hard enough to leave marks through my sleeve.

The trustworthy herb vendor works three counters north. I have bought from the same family since my grandmother first taught me to distinguish rirzed from numiscu. Their drying racks are clean, their bundles correctly labeled, and their prices irritating but fair.

Fresh blue blossoms are stacked at the front of their stall.

I turn toward them.

Nessa steers me aside.

“Not that one,” she says.

“Why?”

“The crop was gathered too late.”

I look across the lane. The petals are intact. The stems show no darkening, and the leaves remain firm.

“It looks sound.”

“There was frost before harvest.”

“Rirzed tolerates frost.”

“Not that much.”

She is lying.

Nessa knows spice, debt, and market gossip. She has never gathered rirzed or prepared a salve. Last year, she asked me whether blue petals could be dried beside a hot stove.

Now she speaks as if she inspected a mountain harvest.

“Who told you?” I ask.

“Everyone knows.”

“Name one person.”

Her grip tightens again. “Please, Fiona.”

The plea is almost inaudible.

Before I can question it, a wagon enters the market behind us. Its driver shouts for room. Buyers press toward the stalls, and a stack of empty baskets topples into the lane.

For several breaths, canvas, bodies, and the wagon’s high side block the western row from view.

Nessa pulls me into a narrower passage.

“There is another vendor,” she says. “Better stock. Lower price.”