“Mop, we cannot,” Nessa interrupted, panic beginning to creep into her voice. “You know we cannot.”

“What parent can?” Anger flashed across the man’s face. “Midwives are asked to swear they attended the birth. Villagers to attest they saw a woman with child before her children were born. People are hiding with their children in their homes to avoid being seen.”

“Why?” Mop asked. “What is the purpose of this… decree?”

“You can read it yourself. Safety of the realm.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Nessa’s voice was tight. “Whatever the reason… it doesn’t matter. We need to bring Rae home. It’s not safe for her here.”

“Myntas…” Mop turned to his friend. “So many people saw us with Rae this morning. I told so many… she’s our daughter. She is our daughter, but… she did not come to us as children come to others… we cannot prove…”

“They’ll send the guards here,” Nessa continued. “They’ll send them to our home. They’ll take her from us.”

Myntas rubbed his round chin. “It would be more suspicious if you left now, so early in the day, before you’ve even sold most of your goods. Stay. Keep Rae out of sight. I’ll help you leave safely.” Kneeling again, he offered Rae his great, meaty hand to shake. “You’re a wise one, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’ve followed everything we’ve said.”

Rae, eyes wide, nodded.

“Can you keep yourself out of sight until I return? I have just the thing to help you hide.”

Teeth still all sticky with dates, but unsmiling, Rae nodded again.

XXXI

WITH SOOT LEFT FROM FLAMES

Alba sat in the cart, gazing at the hubbub before her. She was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. All around her were the vast chattering of the milling crowds, the shouts and cries of the vendors, the brays and grunts and clucks of the animals meant to be sold. This was more noise than she had heard—more color and commotion than she had seen—in years.

The butcher had not brought Alba directly here. He’d taken her home first and given her a good night’s sleep, three duck eggs and a slice of salted bread for breakfast, and then, over Alba’s protestations, his late wife’s best tunic. She kept it nice, he’d said as he’d handed it to her. Never wore it around the animals or the butchering. She’d be proud to know it went to you. His son, a boy as long-necked and startled as the goose he held in his arms, had watched Alba as she’d eaten the eggs. Are you really the oracle-apprentice? he’d whispered when his father was loading the cart. Can you tell me, what is my future? Alba, watching the gentle way he settled the goose, had told him as much as she could see: Kindness will open paths for you, she’d said, in her softest oracle-tones.