The carriage slowed on the cobbled street as we descended onto the busy Haigrove Lane. Margarita pressed her nose to the window and pointed at the striped awning of the sweetshop.
"They have marzipan swans this season! The Marquise told me they shape them to resemble her own pets," my sister's gloved hand clamped down on my forearm like a vice.
I tightened my cravat and placed my hands neatly on my knees.
"Don't forget, we need to buy spices for the meat first."
Margarita nodded absentmindedly.
"Of course, of course."
The footman opened the door and lowered the steps. I stepped out first and offered my hand to my sister. She kept chattering cheerfully:
"The modiste just got a shipment of new lace that would go beautifully with your—"
"My wardrobe needs no additions," I cut in. The sharp scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with her soft bergamot perfume. "Focus on your own whims, sister."
Then I offered her my elbow, and her delicate fingers gladly took it.
We walked down the gravel path. Beneath her lace parasol, Margarita lifted her face to the sky, watching the flight of the carrier pigeons. Her emerald dress, heavy with rose-shaped ruffles, swayed lightly in the breeze. I wore a black doublet, a white shirt gifted by our aunt, and high-waisted black trousers.
"Let's visit the spice stalls first," she announced. "The cook mentioned we need saffron and pepper."
The market square buzzed like a beehive struck with a broom. We bought the necessary spices, then wound deeper through rows crammed with sweets. I knew this market by heart — knew the price of honeyed meat from the hunchbacked man at the corner stall, knew exactly when the boy selling wooden spoons would pack up.
"Brother, look!" Margarita knelt in front of a stand displaying lacquered music boxes. The vendor grinned, golden-capped teeth gleaming, and tapped the mechanism, which began winding out "Greensleeves" with gears shaped like dancing nymphs. "We absolutely must buy this for Lady Brontman's birthday!"
I leaned in to check the price tag. Five guineas. Enough to feed a tenant family for two months. Margarita met my eyes with that same pleading look she'd used when she convinced me to buy those damned peacocks in Scenario 16 — who later tore apart all my tax records.
"Think of it as an investment," she whispered, brushing invisible dust off my lapel. "Lady Brontman's cousin chairs the textile guild. She could lower prices on linen for your new factory."
I sighed, but pulled out my coin purse.
The vendor nodded gratefully, took the coins, and wrapped the desired red box in a wooden case tied with a white ribbon.
Later, we bought a glass vial filled with iridescent powder Margarita had spotted immediately.
"Madame Clare says this blush can survive tears and thunderstorms. I want it."
I brushed my bangs away from my forehead, sticky with the heavy noonday heat, and sighed.
"You have fourteen unopened boxes of cosmetics in your dressing room."
"Fifteen," she corrected cheerfully, tucking the vial into her purse. The saleswoman, a sharp-nosed woman with red knuckles, smirked as the coins clinked into her hand.
Then we stumbled upon a brocade tent and got stuck there for another twenty minutes. While Margarita debated between the dark blue fabric and the gray one, I scanned the area.
A group of navy officers clustered near the tobacco vendor. Their eyes lingered on Margarita before flicking to me, then darted away as if burned. My hand clenched tighter in my pocket.
Any one of them could walk up right now and just stab me.
Every outing could end in death. It was terrifying. No matter how many times I'd died, I still feared it.
I don't want to die. I want to live. At least in this scenario.
I turned back to my sister. Her chestnut braid brushed my elbow.
"Have you decided?"
She pointed at the dark blue fabric.
"This one."
We paid and moved on.
The avenue was packed with stalls under straw roofs. Dyers shouted over steaming vats of indigo, and glassblowers sold fragile figurines. After buying the marzipan swans, I handed them off to the footman and stopped, staring ahead. There rose the copper-green spire of Saint Agatha's Cathedral — recently restored after a severe fire.
A shiver suddenly ran down my spine.
I remembered hands wrapped around my throat, someone's knee crushing the air from my lungs. In one of the scenarios, my life ended right there — in the halls scented with wax and wet wood.
Saliva pooled in my mouth as I kept staring at the empty stained-glass windows, like a man possessed.
That death was painful. But not worse than the one where they burned me alive.
"Brother," Margarita whispered, snapping me out of the trance. "Count Wyston is watching."
I blinked away tears and followed her gaze. Across the street, a man in a coal-black riding coat leaned against a postbox, smoking a cigar. His wolfish grin bared teeth — Lord Julian Wyston, a duelist, a scoundrel, and the man who had annoyed me from the first glance.
"Don't engage," I muttered, steering her toward the next stall. But Julian was already walking toward us, spurs jingling.
"Duke Alder! What luck," he tipped his hat, his gaze lingering on Margarita's décolletage. "And the radiant Lady Alder. Do you require an escort? The streets get awfully tight by noon."
His gloved hand hovered near her elbow.
On the edge of my vision, a translucent system menu pulsed faintly, offering dialogue choices, but I ignored it.
"I'm afraid we have urgent business at the silk shop," I lied, pulling Margarita along. "But perhaps you could recommend a supplier?"
Julian's smile widened. His green eyes narrowed, and his slicked-back blond hair fell slightly over his forehead, casting a shadow over an already suspiciously sly gaze. His left hand dropped, and the right, still holding his cigar, raised it to his mouth and exhaled a sour puff of smoke directly at my face. Disgusting. Bastard.
"Hindelmanns import rare Yalun threads. Third stall over there, next to the taxidermist."
As he spoke, I caught movement in the corner of my eye. A man in a military overcoat was inspecting bayonets two booths down. Captain Oberon von Havisham's profile was unmistakable — the scar slicing across his upper lip, the dark uniform far too warm for the weather, and the bright red cravat. Our eyes met. He nodded once, then turned away.