That night, the flower she’d left was still there, wilted. This time she left a bundle of rosemint and Bando citrus peel, tied together with twine. But yet again, Himil did not come.

On this next day, she went to town. A mile from home, a large gate of centuries-old oak stood, flying Silendar flags of gold and green. Inside, the vast market awaited her. A giant oval fountain in the center watered beasts of burden. Around the oval, booths of wood were squeezed together, covered under yellow oilcloth awnings. Bright vegetables of purple and red and orange were handsomely displayed, next to huge barrels of grain, plows, candy, and bolts of cloth. But Yuna hardly noticed the colors, the textures, the expressions. Her heart was bursting with expectation. Perhaps there would be an argument—one that wasn’t about the price of pork. But she didn’t see Himil at the smithy’s stall. Even the little boys who teased her were nowhere to be seen. It seemed a letdown to not use the courage she had fought to bring with her today.

So she stopped by the rice seller. The old lady saw Yuna and crinkled a smile. Yuna held a coin in her hand. Usually she placed it on the table and pushed it toward the lady, but today she handed it to her. Her fingertips touched the old woman’s wrinkled hand.

“Fifteen measures, please.” She tried hard not to speak in a whisper.

The old lady took the money and motioned to a worker to bring the rice out. Yuna thanked her and did something she never had before: stiffly held out her hand to shake the old lady’s. Silendars shook hands at every greeting, every goodbye, at the celebrations of babies being born, at funerals. But Yuna never touched anyone, because she assumed no one wanted to. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it had been seen as rude. The old lady raised her grizzled eyebrows in surprise, then shook Yuna’s hand.

“Oh, your hand is so soft,” she exclaimed.

“It’s from the aloe plants. Not poisonous, of course. The aloe, that is. And my hand too. Not poisonous.” Yuna was babbling, which was odd. It was as if her internal permission had opened a floodgate.

“Goodness. That’s more words I’ve heard from you than in the last ten years.” The old lady smiled. “It is good to hear your voice, my dear. Have a bright day.”

The chicken seller refused to touch Yuna’s hand. But he watched her speak to the flour seller and the spice merchant, and shake their hands. She’d never seen so many smiles answer hers before. She went home, grinning all the way.

Seven days into no Himil meeting her at the hole, she was having supper with Father. He stared at her furtively throughout their meal of chive and pork dumplings.

“You’re quiet,” he said.