The bells were ringing again when Camillia came through the cloth market with her sister.
A refugee cart was stopped at the end of the row, the ox lathered, the family on it grey with road dust, and a priest was already moving the gawkers along. It was the third cart that week. The war in the east had been eating the borderlands for two years, and the city had learned to walk past what it sent up the king's road.
Camillia had a finished dress over one arm. Eva walked beside her, making a bread roll last.
"Tomas said he'd come by after the workshop," Eva said.
"Tomas says that every day."
"He comes every day."
Camillia almost smiled.
Then the market went quiet around them.
People stepped back. A stall holder pulled his cart in. Four riders came down the row, and the one in front wore royal colours.
The prince reined in beside her. He did not dismount.
"Three times," he said. "I've sent for you three times."
"And I've answered three times, Your Highness."
"To say no."
