Page 40 of Fierce Highland Magic

Or perhaps she had noticed and lacked the room to name one more impossible thing.

Nessa had run.

Lyra stood watching the place where the girl had disappeared, her face white beneath the colored lanterns, her mouth drawn into a line that looked less like grief than an attempt to contain it. The recovered courage had not made Nessa grateful. It had not made her whole in a single clean, cinematic breath.

It had given her fear back.

Fear, confusion, pain, the instinct to flee from every sharp thing in the market.

Lyra had paid dearly to return those things to her.

Rowan should have said something useful.

He had, unfortunately, never been very good at useful.

"You did not have to let her run," he said.

Lyra turned toward him.

The look she gave him could have frost-burned a mountain.

"She was terrified."

"Yes."

"She needed space."

"Probably."

"Do you disagree?"

"No." He kept his voice light. "I'm only noting that people with freshly restored courage are rarely at their best in crowded magical markets. There are usually tears. Occasionally screaming. Once, memorably, a table caught fire."

Her gaze did not soften.

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?"

Rowan opened his mouth.

Closed it.

The quip was there—something about sincerity, something about low expectations—but it died before he could reach for it.

"No," he said. "I suppose not."

Lyra blinked.

The surprise on her face lasted only a moment, but he caught it.

"I meant to establish that Nessa's response was normal," he added. "It didn't work."

"No."

"Then I have failed you in a manner both sincere and unsurprising."

Lyra looked away.

The market flowed around them in cautious, curved currents. Nobody came too close. Merchants who had been eager to offer her something moments earlier found urgent reasons to arrange their wares. A woman with pearl teeth shut the flap of her tent.