As they continued to walk, they came to a halt near a modest food stall. Ruelle's attention, which had been firmly occupied by extinct plants only moments ago, was shamelessly stolen by a row of warm buns glazed with different jams.
"What is that one?" she asked, pointing towards the darkest filling. The scent of warm yeast, sugar, and cinnamon curled invitingly into the cold air.
"Grapes, milady. Sweet and slightly sour," answered the man.
"I don't think you should be eating food from stalls like this, Miss Ruelle. With the wedding so close, falling ill would be inconvenient," Peyton murmured from just behind her shoulder.
Ruelle waved a dismissive hand, already stepping closer to the display. She reasoned,
"I've been eating from stalls like this for years. My stomach has long since grown resistant. Besides, food rarely spoils during the winter months."
A few paces away, a man in a thick woollen coat approached Dane. He greeted, "Mr. Slater, it's been a while."
