Wood clappers snapped out a staccato rhythm. A pair of older women pulled back the purple curtains to reveal doors. A pair of stocky men armed with staffs came out of the shadows and opened the doors. Twilight swirled in on a dusty breeze, and on its wings tramped a horde of jabbering men who, as they settled inside, fell quiet suddenly and stared at her so brazenly that after all they were not proper men who knew better than to stare but must be demons, even if they looked mostly like men.

There came the old merchant from the journey, and the young one flushed and drunk in his wake, scratching at his groin again, that itch having come back. What animals they were!

The old woman strode to the dais and gave a lengthy speech which every man there followed with avid attention. Then she raised a hand. At once they began shouting at her and shaking pouches at her, one overtopping the next. The young merchant cursed in a loud voice and stormed out; the old merchant faded to the back to watch. The clamor looked a lot like haggling at a confluence when one tribe was trying to get more hides or saddle blankets in exchange for dyestuffs or a particular stud.

A shout of triumph from one of the men. A groan from the others, and suppressed if intense whispering among the girls as the triumphant man strutted forward and dropped a heavy bag at the old woman’s feet. An attendant counted out bars of silver from the bag he’d tossed down.

The behavior of demons made no sense at all, so Kirya was relieved when the attendants pulled on her elbows and made it known she could get out of that unpleasant, crowded place and go away into a different one. They led her past a curtain into a cave of tiny places like narrow cages with high walls. They pressed her into one of these narrow places. A lamp burned on either side, hanging from the low ceiling. She stood on a strip of worn carpet, nothing special; she’d felted better patterns as a little girl. A cot set against one wall filled half the space.

The attendants backed out, and the man who had thrown down the bag of silver bars sauntered in, grinning. He was a burly, middle-aged fellow dressed in a silk robe belted with a polished gold buckle. A curtain slipped down behind him, cutting them off from everywhere else. They were alone.

“Whew!” he said in a friendly way. He plucked the flower from her ear.

Abruptly, it all made sense. He thought she was offering him her Flower Night.

“No!” She took a step back. “You are not my choice!”

He laughed. “Yah yah yah,” he said jovially as he walked to her, driving her back until she bumped into the wall and could retreat no farther. His heavy hands settled on her shoulders. He fumbled at her hair, bringing strands to his face, closing his eyes, and taking in a breath. She wedged her arms up between them, and shoved.