Page 52 of Fierce Highland Magic

"That is, admittedly, difficult to frame as good listening."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Usually."

"I am not amused."

"No," he said, looking toward the Blue Lamps at the end of the lane. "I noticed."

He started walking.

I didn't follow.

The market watched.

That was not metaphor. I could feel it now, the pressure of attention settling over my shoulders. Since I had given Nessa my mother's face, something in the market had altered its assessment of me. The vendors did not crowd as close as they had before. They did not offer me cups or charms or bright small solutions.

They watched. As if they had learned I could be made to spend.

Rowan glanced back.

"Lyra."

"I told you not to pay for me."

"I heard you."

"Then why did you?"

"Because the lane ahead is dangerous."

"That is not what I asked."

He held my gaze.

The market's music threaded between us: fiddle, drums, the low hum of hundreds of voices saying things they might regret.

Then he said, "Because I could."

The answer was so simple I had no immediate response to it.

Because I could.

Not because it was fair. Not because he knew the price or had any right to decide what I should risk.

Because he could.

My hand rose to the thistle at my collar. The silver petals were cool beneath my fingertips.

"That does not make it yours to spend," I said.

His jaw tightened.

For one second, something moved beneath the charm. Something older and more exhausted than guilt. Then it was gone.

"Perhaps not," he said.

He turned again.