They led by a market assistant to a far-flung corner of the market beside several tents that were empty or had already closed for the day. The tent canvas was torn and the table covered in sticky stains from previous use.

The nearest open stall was manned by an old man selling bruised peaches. He also had the look of a Mirebound, his skin tinged by a strong greenish complexion, although there was no way to know with certainty without looking at the man's birth certificate. But Aelric could not help but feel they had been wronged.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the stall's table. The market administrator's face burned in his memory—that condescending curl of lips when he'd pointed them toward this miserable patch of ground, so far from the market's center that they might as well have been invisible.

"He put us here to punish us. Just because he thought you were Mirebound."

"We'll make the best of it," his father said, his weathered hands already putting their carefully milled flour into smaller sacks for a better display. His father moved with a deliberate calm that infuriated Aelric even more. His father was always like this. Never angry… almost never, Aelric corrected, remembering the Bestian woman.

"You were angry when the merchant striked the Bestian, but this doesn’t make you angry?"

His father gave Aelric a smile. "Why indeed?"

Aelric let out a hot breath. His father often answered his questions like this, but the answer had already begun dawning in his mind. "No one hit us. He was merely rude."

Aelric's father nodded thoughtfully. "That indeed. But also there is little I can do about another man's prejudices. Another man's violence I can certainly do something about as long as we are in a town of the Mael."

"But now no one will find us," Aelric said, his heart dropping now that the anger was quieted.

His father's smile softened. "Markets have rhythms, son. People will come."

They arranged the flour sacks carefully. Each one was carefully placed upon the tabletop. At the center, his father placed a litra scale, an expensive posession that his father revealed he had bought when he made the plan to take his wheat directly to the market.

The white flour stood out nicely against the rough burlap bags, showing off their good work. Then they stood and waited.

It was not a long wait. Ten spells after they'd finished arranging their stall, a family rounded the corner of the market pathway. The father and mother were busy in conversation, and the child seemed to have led them the way down around the bend.

Aelric watched them approach, suddenly nervous with anticipation.

"Good day!" his father called out. "Might you be interested in some fine flour, freshly milled?"

Aelric stepped forward. "Double-milled flour. Thirty-five arcas per litra. Finest in the market," he added at the end, hoping his voice believed in his words.

The couple's conversation was cut short, and the woman's brow drew up in an arch.

"Thirty-five…? she trailed off, looking around as if she was confused how they'd gotten down this path.

"That's right, thirty-five arcas. A fine price for fine flour," Aelric's father said, smiling. "Would you like to take a look?"

The husband shook his head. "That's noble flour, and I'm no noble."

The family turned back round the way they came, and Aelric watched them go feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut. He looked at his father.

"Don't worry, I saw a few stalls with signs selling for the same price when we came in. It'll be alright."

Two chants passed and the market's traffic began to ebb. Desperate, Aelric and his father began standing at the pathway near the busier part of the maze, calling out to the passerby. But they weren't the only ones. Other shopkeepers called out their wares and prices too.

Finally, a man dressed in a fine vest paused as he walked by, turning to Aelric.

"Price?"

"Thirty-seven arcas. Double-milled. Highest quality—"

The man scoffed and kept on walking without another word.

"We'll drop the price," his father said, a tinge of defeat in his tone.

They went from thirty-five thirty, and when that didn't work, they dropped to twenty. Each reduction felt like losing a piece of their hope. Aelric could remember the days he spent under the sun toiling for the wheat that became their flour. And now no one wanted it.

Then he spotted a boy holding an empty bag looking around the stall. He rushed back.

"Hello there, are you interested in buying some fine flour?"

The boy nodded without meeting Aelric's eyes. He was no more than ten. "How much?"

Aelric's father answered. "Seventeen arcas. Double-milled flour."

"My ma told me to get two litras."

"That's thirty-four arcas," Aelric said.

The boy nodded and placed his finger on the payment tablet. Blue light spilled his finger and solidified into a chit.

Aelric's father took the chit and nodded. Then he scooped out two litras into the boys’ bag and weighed the portion on the litra scale. He added another scoop until the scale evened at two litras, and the boy carefully wrapped the flour sack and scurried away.

"Thank you, and please come again!" Aelric called out to him while wondering if the shy boy had come to this side of the market to avoid the noise and bustle of the central area.

For a while, they were hopeful again.

They did not make a second customer that day.

✣ ✣ ✣

The straw mattress shifted beneath Aelric's weight as he turned again, unable to rest. Moonlight spilled through the small window, cutting through the darkness of his room. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the day in his mind.

During the ride back, Aelric could feel the weight of failure pressing down on his father. There was nothing that could be said. The plan had not worked. For some reason, no one wanted their fine flour, even though it was sold at the other stalls in the market.They had earned thirty-four arcas from the single sale to the boy. After the cost of the market, they had only earned four arcas. Four arcas for two litras of fine flour. It would have been more pofitable to sell Trader Lorrek two litras of wheat, let alone fine flour.

"I'll think of something," his father had said just before they arrived home. But Aelric wondered what they could do. They could perhaps mill another hundred pounds coarse and see if it would sell better, but even then it would be difficult selling at that market. Especially if they got the same market steward again.

Aelric turned onto his side in his bed, pulling the thin wool blanket tighter. He thought of Feyna again and of the arca chit she had given him. The frew hundred arcas would help his family, he knew, but he hated the thought of accepting it. Because he knew, deep down, that to accept it, to spend it, was to accept losing her. And he couldn't do that.

Tears flooded his eyes then. If he didn’t think of something soon, he knew that he would have no choice in the matter. Legionnaire Kallow would be sending his tax collector any day now to collect on the family’s debts. And Aelric could not withhold Feyna’s chit when that time came.

He turned on his bed once more, and again the day replayed in his mind. But this time, his thoughts drifted to the Bestian woman.

He remembered her muscular frame and powerful hands. The way she stood and the way she gazed the portly merchant and at his father.

Aelric wondered about her life. Rough hands gripping heavy loads, muscles straining under the weight of endless labor. Not much unlike his own in that regard. But he had his village and his family. Did she have such things? The way the merchant described her, it seemed her life had been even worse before she became a laborer. Then the merchant had treated the way some farmers treated a hated animal, barking orders, threatening her with a raised hand.

Yet it had done nothing to her. She was not defiant. She was somehow more than that.

His mind drifted to the market. To Feyna. To his family's struggling farm. And then back to the Bestian woman.

"I want that," Aelric said quietly in the darkness. "Whatever that is."