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think we’ve been out here long enough,” said Sylva, grabbing the silk and replacing it on the stall. The stallholder—a hungry-looking man with eager eyes—watched them closely. “My father wanted us back before midday.”
    â€œI’m not leaving until I have my silk. Go home if you don’t like shopping. I don’t need a chaperone.”
    Sylva sighed in frustration. Despite her irritation, Elodie couldn’t help sympathizing. Sylva no more wanted to be her protector than Elodie wanted to be protected. She liked Sylva and wished their relationship could be simpler.
    I wish you really were my sister, she thought.
    Elodie made her way along the row of stalls. As usual, Sylva shadowed her, matching her step for step. When Elodie went left, Sylva went left. When one stopped, they both stopped.
    It was infuriating.
    Elodie picked up her skirts and began to run, darting through the maze of stalls. She passed barrows laden with fresh produce harvested from the great fields of Ritherlee: potatoes and carrots and succulent greens. A large cart creaked under the weight of countless barrels filled with beer or molasses or both. Down one alley, sides of meat swung like great pendulums.
    â€œElodie!” came Sylva’s cry. “Wait for me!”
    Turning a corner, Elodie saw Lord Vicerin’s daughter hurrying clumsily toward her on her fine shoes, her face red and anxious.
    â€œCatch me if you can!” She laughed and dodged behind a stall piled high with pewter bowls and goblets.
    The longer the pursuit went on, the more Elodie found it amusing . . . and ridiculous. Although Elodie’s identity was a secret to all but the immediate Vicerin family, the truth was she was the daughter of King Brutan and thus destined, one day, to rule over all Toronia. Why else would Lord Vicerin be fighting the crown but for the right to put his adopted daughter on the throne? Did Sylva really think Elodie would run away from a destiny like that?
    If only they would let me go, then they’d realize I want to stay .
    A flash of color stopped Elodie in her tracks. It was yet another silk stall, stacked high with bolts of fabric finer than any she’d seen. Running her fingers over the cloth, she dismissed one roll after another. This one was too coarse, this one too pale, this one too dark. . . .
    â€œIs this all you have?” Elodie called to the old woman who ran the stall. She was busy serving a tall man in an elegant court outfit and ignored her. Affronted, Elodie put a hand on her hip. “I said—”
    â€œStop it!” said a voice in her ear. “Stop being such a greedy little brat!”
    Whirling around, Elodie found herself staring straight into the flushed face of Sylva.
    â€œHow dare you speak like that to your future queen!” she snapped. She wanted to shake Sylva, or slap her. What had possessed Sylva to say such a thing? Why would she even think it?
    And why had the words stung so badly?
    â€œHush, Elodie,” said Sylva. “Mind what you say. Nobody can know who you truly are.”
    â€œMind my tongue? Is that it? Well, perhaps you should mind yours before calling me a brat!”
    â€œBrat?” said Sylva, looking confused. “Who called you a brat?”
    â€œYou did. You said—”
    â€œElodie, I didn’t say anything. I just came up and you snapped at me. Who were you talking to?”
    Just for a second, the hubbub of the market died away, leaving Elodie alone in a bubble of silence. Her ears throbbed. She stared at Sylva’s pink, earnest face and saw only simple concern. Then the bubble burst, and the world rushed in again.
    â€œI thought I heard someone,” Elodie muttered.
    They made their way back through the stalls toward the south end of the market, where they’d first begun. Elodie was suddenly tired of shopping. Maybe the silk there hadn’t been too bad, after all.
    As they