Jolene dressed for the market like she was walking into a portrait—pale silk blouse, hair pinned to show every perfect angle, perfume just strong enough to cling to memory.
By midmorning, she was drifting from stall to stall, laughing with vendors, buying little and paying in smiles. In her other hand, she carried small folded notes—passed with the casual elegance of someone tipping for good service.
Clara kept her distance, Marcus shadowing her. She watched one note slip into the hand of a man whose boots didn't match his coat—border rogue, if she had to guess. Another went to a woman who kept glancing at the clock tower instead of her wares.
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By the time they left, Jolene had arranged three things without saying them aloud:
1. A section of the east fence would be “awaiting repair
