The marketplace was just as she had imagined it. A lively row of stalls on both sides.
“My lady!” a woman called, waving a basket filled with oranges. “Freshly picked, sweetest you shall ever taste!”
Another stepped forward with a platter of butter. “The best you will eat this year, Lady Vale!”
Men shouted the prices of smoked fish and wooden furniture while others asked if there was any service they required.
Eliza slowed, breathing it all in. “Do you smell that?” she asked, turning toward Tristan.
He had slipped his hands into his pockets, walking just behind her as carefully as possible. His expression had not shifted once.
“Tristan?” she called again, her voice louder.
“I smell nothing other than raw meat and a handful of herbs,” he responded, his voice casual.
Eliza laughed, shaking her head. “Exactly. All of it together. Is it not exhilarating? People travel from every corner of the village to lay out their goods, each scent mingling into the others. It feels alive.”
Tristan’s mouth quirked in something that might have been a smirk, though it faded almost instantly. “If one finds joy in such things, I suppose.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “And you should learn to enjoy yourself more.”
“I should try to return to the lords,” Tristan countered dryly, “before your brother bores them senseless with talk of industry and land.”
Eliza arched her brow. “Are you saying Marcus can bore a man like you?”
“I am saying Mr. Harwood has the talent,” Tristan muttered.
She hid her laughter behind her hand and moved on. The crowd grew thinner near the far end of the stalls, and it was there shenoticed a man standing with a cat nestled against his arm. The animal’s coat gleamed, silver with subtle streaks of white, and its eyes were bright gold. Eliza stopped before she realized it.
“Good God,” she breathed. “That is the most beautiful cat I have ever seen.”
The villager turned toward her with a nod. “Is he not a beauty?”
The cat gave a soft purr, pressing its head into the man’s chest.
Tristan stepped up beside her. “We have not made your acquaintance.”
“Mr. Kale,” the man said, bowing slightly.
“Lord and Lady Vale,” Tristan replied.
Kale’s eyes widened. He bowed again, deeper. “An honor, my lord, my lady.”
“You are going to the festival?” Tristan asked, his gaze landing briefly on the ribbon tied around Kale’s wrist.
“My daughter is there,” Kale said. “She insisted I bring Lemon.”
“Lemon?” Eliza repeated, her brows rising.
Kale smiled. “That is his name.”
She let out a laugh, delighted. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious. The cat is called Lemon. And he lives up to it. He is sweet, but quick to sour.”
Eliza reached to scratch behind Lemon’s ears, and the creature blinked slowly, entirely pleased with her attention. “A perfect name then,” she said.
“Why do we not walk back together?” she suggested. “We have just come from the festival.”
