“Ah, child.” He smiled a little. “I don’t blame you for being curious. I can’t eat a perrin, either. Now, these are perfectly ripe and just your kith.” He gestured at the pile of yellow, oblong fruits that the Middling woman in the embroidered dress had been examining, but I darted away.

There were bolts of cloth whose shades I had never seen, piles of rugs whose intricate patterns overwhelmed my sight. I felt dizzy, like I might lose my way looking at the twists and turns of the woven designs.

I recognized Ward-made wares. I was astonished to pass by a stall laden with children’s wooden toys and to see their labeled price. I knew the woman in the Ward who made those. She likely received no more than the barest fraction of the marked price.

At first I worried that someone would look closely and question the coat I wore, or would somehow be able to guess I wasn’t the right kith. But everyone was preoccupied with selling and buying. The streets here, I could tell, were newer than in the Ward. The cobblestones were not as worn as behind the wall. At the outskirts of the market square I saw a rank of buildings, higher than anything in the Ward, with diamond-paned windows, flower-twisted balconies, and peaked roofs shingled in dusty red ceramic tiles. My nerves settled somewhat as I walked, and I gave myself over to fascination. If this was how the Middling quarter looked, what would it be like where the High Kith lived?

The city rippled up over the gentle hills around me, a dense patchwork of stone and brick and green vines and, far away, in the High quarter, kaleidoscopic colored glass and the gloss of marble shining in light cast by pink lanterns.

Ethin was vast.

I realized, in the crush of people, that it had been foolish even to hope that I might find Sid. Still, I retraced my steps to the fruit seller, who had seemed kind.

“Oh, you again,” he said, friendly enough. “The shy girl in the boy’s coat. I thought I had scared you off.”

“I wonder,” I said, “if you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”

He lifted his brows. “A merchant?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

“Your sweetheart?”

I flushed. “No.”

His smile became wise. “I know that look on your face. Go on. Describe him.”

“Her.” When he seemed surprised, I added, “She’s a friend,” though the word felt like it didn’t fit. “She’s my age, I think.”

His brow crinkled. “She’s your friend, and you don’t know her age?”

“About my height, but a little taller. Large, black eyes. Her hair is short, cut like a boy’s, light brown, maybe, or dark gold.”

“No one looks like that.”

“She’s a traveler.”