Lady Delaney was a furious weaving of self-indulgence and self-pity, and Arable took a moment to consider how much more pleasant she would be were she falling down a well. The woman was exactly as useful as the carpet Lady Margery had purchased. Most of the ladies in their throng were equally intolerable. The sisters from Bridgeford and Wilford—Alison and Avery—were the terribly important daughters of a terribly important lord who arranged a terribly important set of marriages in exchange for something long lost and forgotten. Now the sisters found little joy in life aside from traveling to Nottingham to glimpse the notoriety their lives would never have.

Not that Arable could complain. She, too, was the daughter of a once-prestigious family, notable now only for how efficiently it had been removed from existence. She wondered with a grim nostalgia if she might have ended up just like them, had she not been thrust from that life before it was too late.

Their group was rounded out by a few younger ladies, a throng of attendants such as Arable, and an uncomfortable complement of Guardsmen. Whatever hope Lady Margery held of inspiring confidence in the city’s market dashed against the perimeter of those Guardsmen. Their presence assured each merchant no other customer would visit so long as the ladies lingered, which led to Lady Margery’s decision to use them as beasts of burden. The Guardsmen bore the bulk of her purchases, including five baskets of white grapes, a series of bronze hammered jewelry boxes, and two bolts of widow-lace satin. The man who had shouldered the rolled carpet for Arable already appeared to regret his chivalry.

“None of it will do,” Lady Delaney lamented melodramatically, turning away from the vendor stalls. “I need earrings, or a necklace, but only of the highest quality.” She sighed deeply, as if she had expected to find such craftsmanship in the aftermath streets.

Lady Margery said nothing, earning more of Arable’s admiration.

“I don’t know if I mentioned it,” Lady Delaney repeated herself to the younger girls who were kind enough to pretend she had not, “but on the twelfth of October we were robbed on our way here from Oughtibridge. It was Robin Hood himself, you know, and he climbed into my carriage and took my brooch from me with both hands. I was as close to him then as I am to you now. He kissed my wrist, you know, this one here. He said if he had a spare horse he would have stolen me as well, for I was far prettier than the brooch.”