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She stares at the cobbler’s shutter rather than the herbs. Her free hand shakes beside her skirt.

“You use this vendor?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Another lie.

I know it with the same certainty that tells me when a patient hides pain. Yet the herbs pass every check I can perform in the market, and I need them before my remaining stock is exhausted.

“How much?” I ask.

“Two dalers for three bundles.”

The price is low, but not absurdly so. A seller working without a gatherer’s mark might accept less to move stock quickly.

I examine a second bundle. The petals, leaf shape, oil, and stems all match the first.

I ask for a cup of hot water. The vendor produces one from a kettle near his stool. I tear the smallest edge from a leaf and drop it into the cup. Blue color spreads slowly from the torn surface. The steam carries the same sweet bitterness.

Rirzed should release its oil in precisely that manner. Numiscu sometimes clouds the water, but cold, age, and soil can alter that sign. This cup remains clear.

“Satisfied?” the vendor asks.

“Careful,” I answer.

“Careful buyers live longer.”

The statement sounds like ordinary market wit. Nessa reacts as if he has threatened her.

Nessa’s nails press into her palm.

“I will take six bundles,” I say.

The vendor wraps them in waxed cloth. I pay four dalers and place the herbs in my basket.

The wagon clears the main lane. Near the abandoned wool stall, a plain-cloaked man pushes through the remaining crowd and looks toward us. I assume he is searching for the vendor or someone displaced by the wagon.

He is too far away to hear anything.

Nessa releases my arm.

Red marks remain on my sleeve where her fingers pressed.

“I should return to my stall,” she says.

“Wait.”

She steps backward.

“Tell me what is frightening you.”

“Nothing is frightening me.”

“You lied about the first vendor.”

Her eyes shine with sudden tears. “I am trying to help you.”

“Then explain how.”