“Oh, you.” Nessa, smiling, swatted him gently. “You exaggerate. It hasn’t been that long.”

The man planted a kiss on Nessa’s cheek before turning his attention to Rae.

Rae made herself even smaller. Having never spoken to anyone besides Mop and Ness in her entire life, she felt suddenly timid in the presence of this jolly man. She kept her head down, still cleaning and polishing the sheep’s hooves.

“And who,” he said, kneeling beside Rae, “is this wise child, who knows clean sheep with dark, shiny hooves will fetch a better price than Mop’s wilderness-matted lambs?”

“This is R—” Nessa began.

“This is our daughter,” Mop said at the same time. “Rae.”

The briefest expression of disbelief flickered over the man’s face before it was replaced with a wide, ruddy smile. “Daughter!” he exclaimed. He reached out his thick hand and wrapped it warmly around Rae’s. “So pleased to know you, daughter Rae,” he said. “Your parents are old, old friends.”

Rae found it difficult to meet the man’s gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Do you like pancakes?” he asked. Reaching into a sack, he pulled out a small stack of cakes wrapped in waxed cloth. “Still warm,” he said, handing one to Rae. “From the market’s best baker… and she knows I like dates, so these are extra sweet.”

“Thank you,” Rae said again. She turned the flat cake over in her hands and took a tentative bite. Had she ever tasted anything quite so sweet, so warm, so soft? She did not think so. She smiled at the man, her crooked grin sticky with dates.

“Good, isn’t it?” said the man.

Rae nodded. Standing, still watching Rae enjoy the cake, the man leaned close to Mop. “You are brave to bring her here,” he said quietly.

“Brave?” Mop asked.

“Yes. The edict. The posting.” He shook his round head mournfully. “How glad I am my children are grown.”

“What posting?” Nessa rested her fingers on Rae’s shoulder.

The man’s eyes widened. “You must know. They’ve been to every town, every village, every last corner hammering up this decree. They’ve stood at every crossroads thundering out this demand. They’ve pulled families out of their beds where they were sleeping, out of the fields where they were working—”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mop interrupted. “What decree?”

“The children,” the man whispered as though Rae would not hear. “All the children. Any who look like they might be”—he nodded meaningfully at Rae—“around the same age. Ten or twelve or so. The post… it’s on the wall.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s everywhere. Parents are asked to prove the children are theirs. If they cannot… the children have been taken away.”

“Taken? Who takes them?”

Rae looked from one adult to another. Their faces had taken on a strange, ashen hue.

“The king’s guards. They come looking, even here at the market.”

“But…” Mop had begun to pile the fleeces higher on their table so passersby would not see the girl sitting behind. “How can parents prove a child belongs—”