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Her quick nod makes the stones dangling from her ears wiggle. She bites her bottom lip and watches my hand.
“They are such pretty colors,” I say, my fingertips exploring the smooth shapes of leaves, animals, and ancient Atsunic script. The language is dying, valefolk preferring the simpler common tongue over such slippery words. I wonder if there are still people who can read it.
“You can’t find them in the Vale.” Her voice is low.
Not in the Vale? I meet her gaze.
Her eyes widen like she has surprised herself, but she shakes the reaction off with a skittering laugh. “I mean, you can’t find themhere. There are many more varieties of bolétis in the forest if you know where to look.”
I raise an eyebrow, not quite sure if that was what she meant. And I don’t understand how the bioluminescent properties of bolétis can be imbued into stone. But since she looks like she wishes her market stall would swallow her, I decide not to pursue it further. A weight of tension releases from her shoulders.
My eyes come to rest on a delicate pendant the size of my thumbnail. It has a peculiar shape, with eight sharp rays radiating from a single point, alternating in thickness and length. This one isn’t made of stone, but an odd metal. It glows with a silvery-white light. Pure.
“What’s this?” I pick up the necklace by its leather cords, the shiny jewel swaying gently in front of my face.
“Oh, that?” she asks, like I’ve startled her by finding it.
I peel my gaze from it, tilting my head and trying to make her out. She has a slight frame, and her clothes, which are threadbare and mended in places, hang loosely off her shoulders. They aren’t homemade like mine. They could have been expensive at one time. Dozens of bracelets ring her arms, glowing like the articles on the table. All except one, which is nothing more than a few pale, braided strings with their ends knotted together. Her eyes enlarge at the sight of the jewel dangling from my hand, following its subtle movement. She slips her index finger under the simple bracelet and twists it around her wrist.
“That’s ... that’s called a star, or istilatum ideralis. It’s a shape from ...” She frowns and scratches the nape of her neck. “From ... history.”
My silence must betray my skepticism because she clears her throat and changes the subject. “That one is actually made from argentilum. There are big veins of it in the Askonnet Mountains. It can absorb the light around it and store its energy ...” A look of deep thought claims her brow.
Everything she says leaves me with more questions. But I don’t have room for them right now.
“Well, thank you for sharing your art with me,” I say, laying the necklace down. It outshines the rest of the jewelry. “It’s beautiful.”
I don’t even want to ask how much it would cost. She raises a hand to chin-level, pointer finger extended. Her lips part like she wants to say something more, but I pretend I don’t see and bob my head in gratitude. More people crowd in, so I step aside to make room. Before I am out of sight, however, I glance back. Disappointment crosses the girl’s face.
As I continue through the market, I study the strings of sola brossa more closely than I have in a while. Their brilliance has faded, the light struggling to reach the ground. That must be the reason for the dozen newly erected street lanterns around the square. Their muddy glow isn’t worth the effort. Has Utsanek ever gone so long without replacing the Light Creature bones?
I don’t have a moment to consider any of it further as a shrill and distinctly aggravated voice emerges from the cacophony of the crowd.
“Oy, come back and face me, yeh insolent brats!”
A commotion erupts farther down the merchant line. People spring to the side with disgruntled cries as two filthy boys barrel through the throng. Grinning maliciously from ear to ear, they hurl themselves along, each clutching large loaves of bread.
Close on their heels, a storm cloud of billowing skirts and wind-whipped, silver hair descends. Those who avoided the first wave are knocked off-balance by the second, and the ambient cursing increases. The face of my old friend, Orlagh Bekyr, comes into view, contorted with anger. The flappable woman nearly plows right into me, but I reach out and catch her just in time, pulling her into my side.
The erratic pursuit ends as quickly as it flared up, but not before Orlagh has a final say. She leans over my shoulder and bellows with all the air in her lungs, “I better not see yer sorry, dirt-smeared faces skulkin’ around my stand ever again.”
I wince at the painful volume of her final threat while laughing inwardly at its vehemence. I would never want to be on Orlagh’s bad side. As I pull her close and hold tight, the woman’s body relaxes.
“Did you need to be so hard on those poor little dears?” I tease, releasing her and letting a smile dance in my eyes.
“Eh? Who’re you callin’ a dear? Those rascals couldn’t be ‘dear’ to their own dear mothers.”
Fighting spirit revived, Orlagh unleashes her fury on the onlookers. “And a fat lot of good yeh all were, watchin’ and doin’absolutely nothin’ about it.”
I laugh, but no one else does. The irritable marketgoers shake their heads, mutter insults, and return to their business as if nothing happened.
She seethes in disbelieving silence while I attempt to tame her frazzled mane of hair. The action has a calming effect on the aged woman. She closes her eyes as my fingers deftly plait and wind the strands into a simple, silver rosette at the nape of her neck.
“Child, yeh are too gentle on this bitter ol’ soul.” She sighs, all her bluster spent.
I secure the knot with a ribbon of fabric from around my wrist. “There. I can recognize you again.”
Catching my hand in hers, she squeezes firmly. She picks up the basket of eggs, loops an arm through the crook of my elbow, and leads me back to her market stall.
