Page 46 of Fierce Highland Magic

That had been the shape of every decision he had made for too long: remove the person from danger; put himself between them and the cost; make the exit before anyone could object.

It was reliable.

It was clean.

It had also brought him here.

Lyra had not asked for protection.

She had been very clear about that.

And still, when he looked at the fox-faced vendor's empty scale, when the market measured her with its bright, hungry eyes, the instinct rose without permission.

Pay for her path.

Buy her an hour.

Trade something he could spare, though the category had become increasingly theoretical.

Keep her hands clean.

The thought came with the old comfort of a well-worn blade.

He hated that it comforted him.

"Are we in danger?" Lyra asked.

He looked at her.

She stood straighter than before. Her face remained pale, but she had stopped touching the hollow place beneath the thistle. Her eyes were clear. Anger held her upright now. Anger and fear and whatever piece of herself she had not yet surrendered.

"No more than usual," he said.

"Which is?"

"Too much."

"That is not a measurable answer."

"I'm sorry to disappoint your profession."

"My profession has not been mentioned."

"It has been demonstrated at length."

She crossed her arms.

"Do not change the subject."

"Then I'll change the location."

Before she could object, Rowan turned toward the narrow lane the fox-faced vendor had indicated.

Lyra did not follow at once.

The hesitation stretched behind him.

Good.