“Ladrão!” shrieked a woman. Harriet recognized her from the booth with the leather goods. The lady merchant plucked the brocade pouch from the ground, tucked it into her apron pocket, and let out a torrent of angry Portuguese at the man, with plenty of finger poking. The seller of hair accessories picked up the embroidered muslin purse and joined in chastising him as she checked the contents before putting it in her apron pocket.
“They’re calling him a thief and telling him his despicable actions have brought shame to his family,” Zach said.
Harriet grabbed her purse with the hand that had been at the thief’s throat, and didn’t let go of his crotch until she was on her feet. He immediately rolled to his feet and darted away through the crowd.
The merchant ladies continued to speak, now in happy tones. “Obrigada, obrigada,” they both repeated, practically fighting each other for the privilege of shaking Harriet’s hand.
Harriet put her purse away. “De nada,” she replied, only now noticing Zach tucking a small pistol back into his coat pocket.
The crowd began to disperse but the ladies kept Harriet’s hand and towed her back to their booths, their torrent of happy words washing over her the whole way.
“They wish to show their gratitude,” Zach said. He interrupted the flow of words to ask a question of the knife seller, then turned to Harriet. “The thief would have made off with two days’ worth of her sales. She wishes to reward you. Pick any item.”
“Sim, sim,” the merchant said, smiling broadly and emphatically gesturing at the table laden with knives, belts, and leather purses.
Harriet eyed the modest folding knife she had planned to buy, then picked up the knife and scabbard she had originally wanted for Gabriel.
The merchant clapped her hands together in delight and rushed around the table to Harriet, a leather belt in hand. Before Harriet knew what was happening, the woman fed the scabbard through the belt, reached under Harriet’s coat to wrap the belt around her waist, and buckled it. She stood back to admire her handiwork, her hands clasped under her chin and a beatific smile on her face.
Harriet adjusted her coat, getting used to the feel of the belt and scabbard against her body. “Obrigada,” she said.
The seller of hair accessories impatiently tugged Harriet the few steps over to her table. She held out the box with the comb and mantilla that Harriet had paid for, dropped and forgotten in her quest to retrieve her purse, and gestured at the stock on her table, animatedly speaking to Harriet.
“She’s saying you bought one of her least expensive combs, but wants you to choose a nicer set for your sweetheart. Or add something else. Whatever you like.”
Harriet felt a blush heat her face as she glanced at Zach, then addressed the seller. “Not for a sweetheart,” she said. “It’s a gift for my mother. She still wears the half mourning of a widow.”
Zach translated.
The seller reached across the table to cup Harriet’s cheeks in her callused hands before she spoke again, a tear in one eye.
“‘Such a dutiful child,’ she says.”
Harriet cleared her throat. “This is fine, really,” she said, pointing to the comb set. “Mama would not be comfortable wearing anything fancier than this one.”
The seller held up a finger, indicating they should wait. She selected a beautiful painted silk drawstring pouch, filled it with hairpins, then tucked it into the box with the comb and mantilla before tying the lid back on and handing it to Harriet.
Ah. This was something Mama could definitely use. Harriet smiled. “A woman can never have too many hair pins.”
After Zach translated, the seller laughed and kissed Harriet on each cheek before letting her go.
They were finally able to move on. Harriet steered them toward the booth selling blankets and other textiles. They had only gone a dozen steps, however, when she realized her hands were shaking and her legs felt like blancmange. Luckily, they were near the outer row of market booths. She stumbled to a staircase to an upstairs office and sat down heavily on the third riser.
What on earth had she been thinking, taking on a thief so much bigger than herself? Money was important but certainly not worth her life.
She didn’t notice she had been alone until a steaming cup appeared in front of her face. “Drink up,” Zach said, pushing the cup toward her mouth.
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, gratefully soaking up the heat, and took a cautious sip of what turned out to be mulled wine, then took a deeper swallow. She swirled the warm wine on her tongue, tasting the orange and cinnamon, trying to identify the other flavor. Clove? After another swallow, she looked up from the depths of the deep red drink and saw that everyone in the market, shoppers and sellers alike, were going about their business as usual. As though nothing had just happened. Zach sat beside her on the step, elbows resting on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees, the epitome of a man at his leisure, as if he hadn’t just seen her almost faint.
“Thank you,” she managed, not sure if she was more grateful for the wine to settle her nerves or him ignoring her ignominious behavior.
“De nada,” he replied with a grin that looked so much like Nick’s. “I confess I’m a tad relieved.”
She stared. “Relieved?”
“If you were able to threaten a man in such a way without the slightest reaction, I might fear for my safety.”
She let out a shaky laugh and took another sip.
