Page 69 of Stolen
I blink at the pink-striped orbs stacked in perfect pyramids.
Sure enough, they vibrate faintly, giving off a musical, almost giggling sound as we pass.
“Try this,” Shade says, pressing a tiny square of something golden into my palm. It smells nutty and sweet, like a baked good and a candy bar had a baby.
I pop it in my mouth and close my eyes, humming in pleasure.
“Oh my God.”
“It is the cream produced after pressing baoba beans and grinding the paste together with nuts and fruits for sweetness and flavor,” she says, proud as punch.
I nod, mouth still full.
“I’m not going to lie, this is incredible. It tastes like a peanut butter cup.”
I moan a little, missing all things Reese’s with the kind of bone-deep ache only sugar withdrawal can cause.
I reach for a second sample. This one’s a pretty lavender cube from a fancy tray on the other end of the cart.
“What does this taste like?” I ask, holding it up for inspection.
Shade gasps, smacking the cube from my hand so fast I stumble backward.
“No! You mustn’t eat that, Lady Jules!”
“What? Why?!”
“That,” she says gravely, “is poison.”
I blink at the fallen cube like it’s a snake.
“Poison?! It’s just sitting there!”
“Indeed,” she nods solemnly. “The scent keeps rodents and wing-thieves away. It is safe to touch, but even the smallest bite would kill you—and me—within seconds.”
“Geezus. Okay. No purple poison cube of death. Got it.”
I wipe my hand on my dress and glance nervously at the shopkeeper, who looks somewhere between horrified and deeply apologetic.
Shade bows quickly and mutters a few words in what I think is the local tongue.
The woman relaxes, offering me a brittle smile and a free pouch of baoba cream.
Shade takes my elbow.
“Come. There is a flower stand just beyond the fountain I think you will like.”
I follow, still shaken, but curious. The air here smells like bread and herbs and morning dew.
Soft flute music plays from somewhere I can’t see, and despite the near-death by cube, this market is kind of magical.
The flower stand?
Absolutely blows me away.
I gasp, actually gasp, at the sight before me. “Are these real?”
Hundreds of flowers crowd the wooden stall and its shelves, spilling onto baskets and crates in every imaginable color—and then some.
