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fountain. Vendors and shoppers milled about,
chatting in the midmorning sunshine. Elide
paused by the square’s arched entrance,
putting her back to it, and fished the little
mirror out of her cloak pocket, careful not to
jostle the knives hidden there as well.
She flicked open the compact, frowning at
her reflection—half of the expression not
entirely faked. She’d crushed the berries at
dawn and carefully lined her eyes with the
juices, turning them red-rimmed and
miserable-looking. As if she’d been weeping
for weeks.
Indeed, the face that pouted back at her was
rather wretched.
But it wasn’t the reflection she wanted to
see. But rather the square behind her.
Surveying it outright might raise too many
questions, but if she was merely staring into a
compact mirror, no more than a self-