Where I wanted earthy brown, Margun insisted on evergreen. When I said silver trim suited the shade well, she smacked my hand away from the threads and held up an iridescent spool of thread that reminded me of starlight.

I argued over the plunge of the neckline; she battled me on the cut of the sleeves, hem, and bodice.

By the end of our encounter, Emi was red-faced from holding in laughter, and I had a roll of different silks draped over my arm to choose from before Margun finished the gown.

When all the selections were made, I scurried from the silk shop—a satchel of lace and ribbons Margun insisted ought to be braided into my hair tossed over one shoulder—and into the streets of the market, desperate to finally breathe again.

Emi paused to inspect a cart with bone and jade bands, and woven necklaces.

“I didn’t take you for a woman who wore stones?”

The curves of her ears heated in a soft pink. “I was thinking it might be a fine welcome gift for the princess Yrsa. She’s remaining at Stonegate from now on, after all, and I thought it might suit her.”

Generous. Yrsa was a mystery to me. Rumors insisted King Hundur was a protective father, and some said he never allowed his girl beyond her own private gardens lest she was visiting her betrothed in Stonegate.

Still, Emi seemed to hold the woman in high regard, and Thane did not loathe his match.

I looked forward to meeting her.

I leaned against a stone wall near a short tunnel that cut across one side of the market and opened in the other. Young laughter drew my attention.

I peered around the wall and a flush of heat prickled across my cheeks.

Roark, clad in his Sentry tunic with his crescent moon sword on his waist, was turned away from me. A trio of Stav were with him, grinning as the Death Bringer held his hands up over the heads of a gaggle of young ones.

Tucked between each of the Sentry’s fingers were parchment-wrapped sweets—smooth creams made from honey and milk and sticks with sugary glaze.

Roark would taunt the littles by tempting them with the sweets, then tuck them behind his back, slip them into a pouch tethered to his waist they could not see, and return empty-handed.

I muffled a laugh when the groans echoed along the tunnel.

Until the Sentry held up one finger, telling them to be patient.

In a few theatrical motions, Roark reappeared eight sweets, one tucked between every finger. Cheers, giggles, and muttered thanks followed as Roark and the Stav gave up the sweets, watching the young ones scatter gleefully through the market, their prizes in hand.

I leaned against the curve of the tunnel. “I’ve been your charge for some time, Sentry Ashwood, and I’ve yet to receive anything sweet from you.”