Page 43 of Fierce Highland Magic

Rowan looked away so quickly that Lyra noticed.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"You keep saying that."

"I have found it to be a very flexible word."

"What is wrong with the pin?"

"Besides its persistent refusal to obey clothing conventions?"

"I'm serious."

So was he.

That was the problem.

He glanced toward the far end of the thoroughfare, where the market grew denser and the stalls narrowed toward the old stone wall of the ruined kirk. A place to the left sold paper birds that carried secrets. A place to the right displayed sleeping knives in black velvet. Ahead, under a canopy of lanterns made from tiny glass moons, the crowd had opened a clear path.

Too clear.

A path offered by the market was rarely a path you wanted.

"The pin is a question," he said.

Lyra stared at him.

"That means nothing."

"It means I do not have an answer yet."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No."

The word came too fast.

Her expression changed. Not belief. Not exactly disbelief, either. Assessment.

Lyra did not trust him, which was sensible.

Lyra was becoming increasingly skilled at being sensible in precisely the ways that made him uneasy.

"That was a lie," she said.

"Possibly."

"Was it?"

"If I said no, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Then you see the difficulty."

"I see that you would rather turn everything into a game than answer a direct question."