Pika stands, saunters to Galinor, and presses her head against his abdomen.
Galinor stands still. With a wary voice, he asks, “What is she doing?”
I roll my eyes. “She wants you to pet her.”
Galinor cringes, but he slowly—very slowly—gives her an awkward pat on the top of her head. Elated, Pika rubs against him, almost knocking him over.
“She likes you!” I exclaim.
“Wonderful.”
“At least we know she won’t eat you,” I tease.
Galinor gives me a withering look. “You’re going to have to keep her hidden, at least while we’re in Crayhope.”
I nod.
It takes several tries, but finally, Pika stays while we leave to find the others. I glance back to make sure she doesn’t follow.
Bran, Dristan, and Marigold speak quietly when we return. They look up, their expressions almost guilty when they see us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, and then I narrow my eyes when I realize a member of our party is missing. “Where’s Irving?”
Dristan clears his throat. “He, uh…”
Why are they looking at me like that? My stomach tightens. What’s happened?
Marigold finally steps forward, her eyes full of pity. “There was a woman. He disappeared with her a few minutes ago.”
A woman? I scrunch my brows, trying to understand. Once I realize they’re worried I’ll be hurt, I laugh. There’s little Irving can do to upset me now.
They gape at me, but I only shrug. “He’ll be back soon enough.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Dristan asks.
I glance through the trees at the street performers loitering in the village square, and then I look back at our party. “I have an idea.”
“I can’t sell you anything,”the crabby merchant says, glaring at the castle in the distance. “Not until the marquis makes up his mind.”
I shift my weight, thinking. “What if you pull your cart back to the road and we do our business there?”
As the man mulls it over, his mouth tightens into a thin line. “I’d lose my spot.”
We’re on the edge of the city, nowhere near the squares.
“It’s not a good spot anyway,” I point out.
Grumbling, the man fetches his grazing horse. “You had better make this worth my while.”
I nudge Galinor, but the prince only grunts. For unknown reasons, he doesn’t love my idea.
The man finally moves out of the square, and we meet him by the fork in the road.
“What are you buying?” the merchant asks, taking stock of us. For the first time, it seems to register we’re not a ragtag bunch.
His eyes light up as I pull all the scarves and two large bolts of silk from his cart. I glance at him. “Do you have any trim? Any tassels?”
The merchant tents his hands, tapping his fingers eagerly. “I have delicate woven gold trim from Orick and lovely strands of shells from Ptarma.”
