Mother’s hand clamped around mine, and suddenly we were running. Her grip was iron, pulling me with the full force of her panic.

  “SANDY!” she cried, her voice slicing through the din of the market. Her eyes darted in every direction, scanning the crowd.

  If I hadn’t been so afraid for my best friend, I might have glared up at her hypocrisy. She insisted others use my full name, yet here she was shortening Sandra Lynn’s without a second thought. So it was only me she wanted to keep formal, I thought bitterly.

  The shuffle of our search grew into a full run. My legs could barely keep pace, but Mother’s hand refused to let me lag. I searched as well, my eyes darting over the crowd, desperate to catch the flash of black-and-pink plaid that marked Sandy’s shirt.

  A wild thought came to me, and my gaze lifted to the rooftops. Would she? Could she? No. The city had taken great care to protect children from climbing so high—ropes removed, beams cut, guards watching. Even Sandy wouldn’t have managed it.

  We burst back into the adventurers’ quarter, where a knot of people had gathered in the street. The crowd murmured with concern.

  “Is she okay?” someone asked.

  Mother plunged into the huddle like a battering ram, dragging me with her. Faces parted, and I braced myself for the worst.

  But it wasn’t Sandy.

  In the middle of the circle lay the moon elf of the Draughts, her great Growl Beast pinning her to the ground—though not in violence. It licked her face with a slobbering tongue as she laughed, both beast and master oblivious to the attention they had drawn.

  It was a sweet scene, but not the one we were searching for. The elf looked up at us, curious. Even the beast paused, glowing eyes tracking my mother as we pushed through. Too many eyes turned our way. Mother wasted no time. She bolted back out of the crowd, her grip never loosening on me.

  Then, ahead, a familiar figure appeared.

  Tonta.

  The half-giant ambled toward us, and this time it wasn’t his face that made my heart leap—it was the small figure perched proudly on his shoulder like a parrot on a pirate.

  Sandra Lynn.

  Mother gasped, relief flooding her expression.

  “Lose something?” Tonta bellowed with a grin. He lifted Sandra down gently, his massive hand steadying her until her boots met the ground. She chirped like a bird—at least I could have sworn she did—and skipped forward.

  Mother fell upon her with an embrace, only to pull back quickly. “Where did you go?” she demanded, voice sharp with lingering fear.

  This wasn’t the first time my mother had slipped into the role of mother for Sandra Lynn. Ever since Claudia’s death, she had insisted the girl visit often, treating her like a half-daughter. And Sandy, clever as always, knew how to play the part.

  “We started walking away,” she said sweetly, “and the Growl Beast sniffed an orc. He got startled and fell, and the whole commotion distracted me. When I looked back, you and Benson were gone.” She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “And my dad—and even you—have always said if I get lost, I should find someone I know. So I walked right back to Mountain Man here.”

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  Her story unraveled in my head as quickly as she spun it. There were lies tucked between the truth. Sandy probably knew the market better than I did; she could have walked to Pierre’s blindfolded. She hadn’t “lost” us—she had chosen distraction. And the mention of an orc? There were only a handful in the city, Tuggy’s family most of all. She would have named them.

  I winced, waiting for Mother to cut through the charade. Her glare bore down on Sandra Lynn, weighing the words carefully. For a long moment, the air stretched taut.

  And then Mother’s nose wrinkled. She leaned back, covering her face. “By the gods,” she groaned. “What is that smell?”

  She bent closer to Sandy and nearly retched.

  Both her eyes and mine turned instinctively to Tonta. He only shrugged, amused. “One week, Martha. Like I said.”

  “How?” Mother demanded, half in confusion, half in horror.

  “A few stalls over, a trophy hunter was putting on a repellant. You’re lucky that’s what she found—and not one of the attraction oils. That would’ve been worse.”

  Mother’s glare shifted into disbelief, then softened into a strange mix of relief and exasperation. She looked at me, then at Tonta, then back to Sandy.

  Sandra Lynn only laughed. The tension broke like a dropped plate, replaced by the absurdity of it all. She stood there grinning, proud of the stench as though she herself had slain the beast that reek had come from.

  Tonta gave a short explanation on how to dampen the smell, but the damage was done. The girl carried herself like a warrior with a trophy, her stink a banner of triumph.

  The giant clapped my mother gently on the shoulder, then lumbered back toward his stall.

  We turned once more toward Pierre’s, but this time we moved with a curious bubble around us. Vendors and passersby kept a polite distance, noses wrinkling, eyes narrowing. And Sandra Lynn, grinning ear to ear, walked in the center of it all, proud as a queen with her crown.

  We slipped into Pierre’s as though my mother were leading an entourage, her pace brisk and determined. She wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “Pierre,” she called, “please tell me you have some form of Honeybloom spray.”

  The owner stood atop his usual perch: a chair fitted with tiny steps, giving him just enough height to tower over the counter. Pierre was a gnome, barely three feet tall, with a round, polished face. His slicked hair was combed neatly to the side with a single curled strand at the front, and a clean-shaven chin gave him an air of perfectionism. Only a small mole beneath his left nostril marred the symmetry of his appearance—noticeable, but not unfortunate.

  He hesitated at her request, then quickly bustled down his chair, shuffling across the shop floor. The air was thick with competing scents, chemicals and perfumes sparring for dominance. Stained wood lined the walls, shelves groaning with bottles, vials, beakers, and tubs, all arranged with obsessive care. The only discordant pieces were Pierre’s own counter-chair and steps—unfinished, plain, and glaring in their contrast.

  He dragged a stepstool to a tall cabinet and climbed with precision, reaching for a small vial. “For Arturo?” he asked, glancing back. His voice was polite, his tone softened with respect for my mother. “It’s pleasant, of course, but don’t let the name deceive you. It was originally concocted for working men.”

  “No,” Mother said, her lips tight. “A mix of enchantment and child mischief.”

  Pierre blinked and turned, his gaze landing on Sandy and me for the first time. His demeanor shifted instantly. Straightening, he adopted his best business voice. “Ah! Good afternoon, young ladies.”

  We had barely taken two steps closer before his smile withered. His nose wrinkled. His entire posture recoiled.

  “GIBBLETS GRACIOUS!” he cried. “What on Rencrest is that foul odor?”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me—not even then. We had come to a perfume shop, and Sandy was practically marinated in Worg Repellent.

  My mother didn’t miss her chance. She jabbed a finger toward Sandra Lynn, her voice sharp with vindication. “Your culprit is right there, Pierre. She’s coated herself in a hunter’s repellant.”

  Pierre reacted as though Sandy had sprouted scales. He pinched his nose shut, shuffling toward her with all the caution of a man approaching plague. His tiny arm stretched as far as it would go, holding the vial like a weapon.

  Sandy just grinned, stubbornly proud of her “trophy.”

  Pierre squeezed the bulb at the vial’s end twice. Two sharp puffs of mist burst over her, glittering faintly as they fell.

  I couldn’t help it—I giggled. The whole exchange was too absurd not to.

  We all waited in silence, watching. Slowly, the repellent’s stench thinned. It didn’t vanish entirely, but instead became a faint, lingering note—like the ghost of a smell rather than the punch of one.

  “HEAVING HOOZITS!” Pierre gasped, staggering back with relief. He clutched at his chest, then marched to my mother with solemnity. Pressing the vial into her hand, he declared, “On the house, Martha—for the betterment of the city.”

  Mother accepted with grace, though her expression suggested she’d rather not burden the poor gnome’s nose any longer. She quickly purchased two more bottles, her selections practiced and sure.

  One was her daily scent: a blend of cinnamon, coal, and lavender, known as Fire Petal. I always wondered if the name was a quiet nod to the fire she had once wielded in her youth.

  The other I knew even better: maple, hickory, and lilac, mingled into a perfume called The Wardeness. It was the first perfume she had ever given me, a scent I wore proudly even when the bottle ran empty.

  Before we left, she sprayed each of us lightly, ensuring Sandy’s lingering stink would not cling to our clothes. It didn’t.

  Pierre waved us off, though his expression was more of endurance than warmth. My mother gave a final nod, and we stepped back into the sunlight—carrying with us the faint sweetness of perfume, and the sour aftertaste of near-disaster.

  Mother drew in a long breath as we stepped back into the open air of the market. For a moment, she seemed to steady herself, though her eyes still carried that restless shadow that had haunted her for days. Father wore it too, though neither of them had spoken it aloud.

  My gaze dropped to my hand, to the faint mark still etched across the skin. The questions clawed at me, begging to be asked—but I swallowed them down. Like so many others, they were filed away for Grandpa Prosic tonight.