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“Well now,” Pell said, drawing her back. “Marda’s is the first bundle on the left.” He gestured toward the corner. “And mind the cans. Took me all morning to stack them.”

The shop was alive with sound—coin clinking as the woman paid for her fabric, Pell’s charmed broom swishing in the back. Orzen moved through it all with exaggerated care, lifting the bundle of firewood without so much as brushing a can. Wren arched a brow at Pell, who followed his every step like a hawk eyeing a mouse.

“Look at that,” she said, a shadow of humor in her voice. “And you doubted him.”

Her words had barely left her mouth when a log slipped from Orzen’s grip, striking the side of a display stand. A small clay pot wobbled once, twice—then tipped over the edge and cracked against the floor, splitting cleanly in two with a snap.

A strangled sound escaped from Pell, his voice leaping an octave. “That was imported!”

“I’ve got it!” Wren dropped beside the shards before he could start hyperventilating. She gathered the largest fragments with careful hands, fitting the edges together like a puzzle. Her mark thudded faintly under her sleeve as she reached for her magic.

The noise of the shop dulled around her, as if the room itself held its breath. She pictured the pot—soft clay once pressed and smoothed by a stranger’s hands—the unbroken edges knitting together in her mind. A cool shimmer traced the cracks, like breath on glass, until the seams vanished.

“Good as new.”

She set the pot back on the shelf with exaggerated care.

Pell peered at the vessel, then at Orzen, and finally gave the smallest, most reluctant nod. “You’re lucky Miss Wren has impeccable skill, or I’d drag you out of the shop myself.”

“Luck stone indeed,” Orzen grumbled under his breath. Then he tried for a tone of cheerful resignation. “Next time, I’ll bring a gift with me.”

“I like strong tea and unbroken merchandise,” Pell said, straightening a row of jars as if order alone could restore his peace. “You’ll be allowed back when you manage both.”

Wren shifted the bundle of wood into her arms. “I’ll carry it out,” she said, with a nod toward him. “Hopefully, the rest of your day goes better.”

“Doubtful,” Pell replied, though his tone had softened into something almost fond. “If another traveler disturbs my wares” —he gave her a long, theatrical look, — “I may commit unspeakable crimes.”

They stepped back into the sunlight, laughter rising between them. The market’s chatter swallowed the sound. The smell of baked bread drifted through the air. It was almost too much after the rigorous calm of Pell’s shop.

“You survived,” Wren said brightly, holding the heavy bundle out to him.

He took it with a long, exaggerated sigh. “Thanks to you.”

“Brunna won’t be so easy. She’s a tougher bar to bend.”

“Excellent. I love a challenge.” He smirked, then faltered when she gave him an incredulous look. “Maybe I won’t talk.”

“Oh, I think you should,” she said, laughter in her voice. “I’d love to see it.”

He pressed his lips together in silent concession.

“You’re no fun at all.” The sunlight glinted off the dew clinging to the cracks as they made their way toward the forge. “You’ll be fine. Simply convince her you’re not dangerous.”

“So easy,” he muttered. His gaze caught the faint shimmer where her sleeve had shifted, brows drawing together. “That new? It glowed when you fixed the pot. I didn’t notice it yesterday.”

Her heart gave a little start and she tugged the fabric lower over her wrist. Thankfully, no one else seemed to have noticed.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said quickly.

“No, uh, it’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s a Spirit mark.”

“Must mean you’re an expert. I’ve never seen Spirit in action.” He shrugged, hefting the bundle higher. “It was…different than I thought it would be.”

She thought of Hennah’s quiet, unreadable eyes.

“No one really understands Spirit weaving.”

“So,” he said with a shrug, “tell me what it is to you.”