Page 45 of Fierce Highland Magic

Rowan did not answer.

"Your guest has made herself expensive."

Lyra went still.

The fox-faced vendor's smile was carved into the mask, permanent and immaculate.

"Freshly marked," he continued. "Freshly visible. The center will be very interested."

"She is not for sale," Rowan said.

"Oh, no. Of course not." The vendor tapped one fingertip against his scale. "But safe passage is always for sale. A little distance. A little obscurity. A way through places that are now becoming less hospitable."

The vendor's gaze moved to Lyra's collar.

Then to Rowan's throat.

"Your standing is low," he said pleasantly. "But not yet gone."

The pale line at Rowan's throat answered with a cold pulse.

Lyra's eyes narrowed.

The vendor bowed.

"Consider my offer," he said. "The first stretch inward is not kind to those without an invitation."

Then he vanished into the crowd.

Not dramatically. No curl of smoke, no thunderclap. One moment he occupied the lane; the next, a woman in a crimson gown crossed between them, and he was gone.

Lyra looked at Rowan.

"Safe passage," she said.

"A sales pitch."

"He knew about the claim."

"Most people here know about the claim."

"He knew your standing was low."

"Most people here have terrible manners."

"Rowan."

He exhaled through his nose.

The market had begun to notice her in earnest. He could feel it now, the way its attention crawled under his skin: stalls turning toward her, prices subtly rising, small offerings appearing at the edges of her vision. The bright ribbons tied to tent poles were beginning to fray into silver threads. The lanterns had shifted from warm gold toward a paler shade.

Dawn was distant.

But not as distant as it had been.

He should move her.

He should move her farther from the central market, farther from vendors who recognized her new mark, farther from every pathway that led inward.