Father and I set out to get ingredients for that night’s dinner, we had run out of cumin and pepper, and we needed vegetables for stuffing. The market was decorated in bright displays, banners, lanterns, and charms. They were designed to catch your attention and hold it. The painted banners had characters in bold colours, thickly drawn in stylised strokes with words and phrases to entice passersby like a siren song. All of them were temporary and every day they were taken down by 17:00 in the eye. That day, the market buzzed with tension so thick, you could cut through it with a dao. People crowded by sellers and stalls speaking in hushed voices. They seemed worried, angry, excited. Whispers carried by the cool evening breeze fell on my ears, though I could only catch a few words: “missing”, “Awani”, and “princess”. Normally, the market was boisterous -- a place for socialisation as well as business. Not that day. Almost every vendor we talked to seemed like they were holding their breath. As if they were expecting the very ground they stood on to be swept away at any moment. It was peculiar, but I dare not ask; Father taught me it was rude to be nosy.

Mr. Ruan Cheng, a family friend, greeted us when we came to his stall. He was the town gossip, cheerful and well-meaning, but terrible at keeping secrets. His face, kind and aged, was something of a staple in my childhood memories. Despite his big mouth, he was a reputable seller, so we always got our spices from him. In return, we gave him whatever he needed from our farm. Father told me Mr. Ruan had had his stall there for over three decades and was pushing four. I couldn’t imagine doing one thing for so long. I hoped he would enlighten us at last, and he didn’t disappoint. Mr. Ruan had this way of telling you a secret like you were the first and only person he’d ever told even though that was never true. “You won’t believe what’s happened in the Crown,” he whispered. Almost like clockwork, there was a new scandal about our royals every week. Ranging from the severity of the Queen’s latest paramour, to what the princess wore to her birthday party. Nothing serious.

“Oh yeah?” I quipped, “What is it this time? Did Princess Halakor denounce the colour purple?”

I was startled by the intensity of his expression, I’d never seen him so grave, “It’s no laughing matter, Paris,” he heaved a sigh, “Princess Halakor is missing.”

His words were like a punch to the stomach, “What?” I managed to choke out.

“Word on the street is that she went missing yester-morrow, and a search party came back empty-handed. Queen Xiuying is understandably upset, but she hasn’t released an official statement just yet. Rumour has it that the Awani family of Mohru Bahar are responsible.”

“My gods, that’s awful!” I said, “Why would someone do such a thing?”

He shook his head, arms folded around his portly belly, “I don’t know.”

I felt in a daze, time seemed to slow to a crawl and at the same time it raced past me. Before I knew it, we were back at home. I didn’t know much about Halakor, she was only a few years younger than me, 14 or 15 at the time. I knew she didn’t do much outside the palace for her own safety, which made her disappearance all the more distressing. She was protected, and still she was lost. It was terribly humbling to realise that even the most powerful people weren’t immune to tragedy. I thought about the Queen, and wondered what she must be going through. How long would it take her to admit defeat? Would she stop at nothing, or would she accept her daughter’s fate after giving it her all? I wanted Halakor to be found more than anything. She was a kid -- she didn’t deserve to get dragged into the politics of the Crown. My face warmed when I thought about how she was forced to pay for her mother’s mistakes.