At the top of another staircase, down an alley and around a corner, they reached an arch guarded by two uniformed people. A square was visible beyond.

“Do you think we’ve made it through?” said Giddon.

“I surely hope so.”

“Proof of purchase,” said one of the guards as they approached.

“Proof of purchase?” Giddon replied.

“You must purchase something in the amble before exiting,” said the guard.

“Are you serious?” Giddon said, startled by this. “If you enter a shopping area, you have to purchase something? Is this a law?”

“It certainly is,” said the guard. “What part of the Royal Continent are you from, sir?”

“But what if I have no money? What if I’m poor?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you don’t look poor.”

“I purchased something,” interrupted Hava, then handed an object to the guard that seemed to be a tiny, silver figurine of a fox, its eyes made of yellow diamonds. Giddon noticed that she was changing how her face looked. Her eyes were gray, and Ungraced.

“This looks like a game piece from a City game,” said the guard, fingering the fox. “A valuable City game. Is this from Bazil’s Game Shop?”

“Yes,” said Hava.

“And you only purchased one piece?”

“Yes.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

Hava shrugged. “I only needed one piece.”

“Hm,” the guard said doubtfully. “For all I know, you brought that game piece into the amble with you. I don’t need to see the purchase. I need to see the proof of purchase.”

“Is this it?” said Hava, holding up her hand.

At the sight of the bright, white paper with a colorful shop insignia held in Hava’s hand, Giddon glanced away, for it made his gorge rise.

The man handed the fox back to her, a new disinterest on his face. “Very good,” he said. “Move along.”

Giddon waited until they’d crossed the square. Then he allowed himself his second frustrated “Hava!” of the day.

“Yes?” she said, tucking the shiny little fox back into a pocket.

“What if he’d tried to take that proof of purchase from you?”

“You saw that he didn’t.”

“How did you even know what it should look like?”

“Weren’t you watching the people in the amble? I saw a dozen shopkeepers hand a dozen proofs of purchase to people.”

The main thing Giddon had noticed in the amble was that every small, dark-haired woman was Bitterblue to him, until she turned and showed the wrong face, or spoke in the wrong voice, or moved the wrong way. “You have money,” he said. “Why are you stealing from Keepish artisans?”

“Because I wanted it,” she said, “and because I hate this place. It killed my sister.”