Page 60 of Fierce Highland Magic

Summer rain. Damp earth. The old wooden door swelling in its frame. My grandmother calling from the kitchen that I was letting the cold in.

The vendor's hand lifted.

"Enough."

She touched two fingers to my temple.

Cold entered me.

Then the sound was gone.

Vanished.

I stood very still.

I knew there had been rain.

I knew there had been a shed.

I knew that, once, a particular rhythm on a particular roof had meant safety to me.

But when I reached for it, there was nothing to hear.

Only the shape of a sound.

The woman withdrew her hand.

The stair brightened.

A thin line of pale gold appeared along the edges of each stone step. Above, the archway opened onto a lane washed clean by rain.

"Passage," she said.

I nodded.

My throat hurt.

"That was fairly done."

The vendor inclined her head.

"Yes."

I started up the stairs.

Rowan followed.

He didn't try to stop me. He didn't offer his hand. He didn't say he was sorry.

The steps were dry beneath my boots. The air changed as we climbed, losing the stagnant cold of the black-water lane. At the top, the corridor opened onto a narrow ridge of old stone above the market's lower thoroughfares.

Below us, Blue-Lamp lane lay like a dark cut through the stalls. The black water had already swallowed the entrance arch. On the far side of the ridge, a clean path curved beneath a row of silver birches toward the Old Quarter.

We were through. Actually through. I stopped beneath the first tree.

The leaves above us were silver on one side and green on the other. They turned without wind, flashing light across the wet stones.

Rowan came to a halt several feet away. The distance between us was enormous. He wanted something from that trade, and the market billed him for wanting it.