Chapter Forty:

They drifted onward from the Memory Tree, the lanes subtly rearranging themselves as if the Bazaar were curious what Olivia might notice next.

A booth of hanging glass prisms chimed softly as she passed, each one holding a different sky inside it—sunsets, storms, unfamiliar constellations. Another offered gloves stitched from shadow and moonlight, politely declining to be touched unless invited. Miss LaDonna guided Olivia with a light hand and lighter words, pointing out what felt right rather than what merely looked impressive.

Then Charles slowed.

He stopped just short of a junction where four wide aisles met, the crowd briefly thinning as if granting him space by instinct. He adjusted his coat cuffs, glanced around once, and smiled at Olivia with that particular warmth that always meant both reassurance and mischief.

“I’m going to excuse myself for a short while,” he said lightly. “There are… a few things that require my attention.”

Miss LaDonna arched a knowing brow but said nothing.

Charles turned back to Olivia, his tone softening just a fraction. “You’ll be quite safe with Miss LaDonna. The Bazaar knows you now.” He tapped the amethyst at her throat gently, just once. “Still—if you need me, truly need me, you know what to do.”

Olivia nodded, the words already familiar. “Just whisper your name.”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “No shouting. No bargaining. Just a whisper.”

He stepped back, already half-elsewhere, then paused long enough to add, “Oh—and remember: curiosity is encouraged. Obligation is not.”

With that, he turned down a side aisle that seemed narrower than it had any right to be, the crowd folding around him. Two steps later, he was simply… gone. Not vanished. Just no longer present, as if he’d stepped out of the story for a moment.

Olivia stood there blinking.

Miss LaDonna chuckled softly. “He does that.”

Olivia laughed too, a little breathy, then looked around again—really looked this time. Without Charles anchoring the moment, the Bazaar felt a touch larger, a touch more alive, but not threatening. Watchful, maybe. Curious.

“Well,” Miss LaDonna said, adjusting her bag and gesturing down a lane where colorful canopies fluttered like sails, “shall we see what calls to you next?”

Olivia’s ears perked. Her tail swayed once, decisively.

“Yeah,” she said, excitement threading her voice. “Let’s keep shopping.”

They moved on at an easy pace, Olivia still half-expecting the Bazaar to lurch or test her now that Charles had stepped away—but it didn’t. If anything, it seemed to relax, lanes widening just enough, foot traffic flowing around them like water around stones.

Then Miss LaDonna slowed.

“Oh,” she said, with quiet satisfaction. “Well now. That’s fortunate.”

She angled toward a booth that looked, at first glance, almost unassuming: a low wooden counter beneath layered awnings of indigo and smoke-grey cloth. No flashing signs, no shouting vendors. Just a neat display of small drawers, shallow trays, and glass jars—each labeled in tidy script that shifted languages as Olivia tried to read them.

Behind the counter stood a tall, willowy figure wrapped in layered robes, their face mostly obscured by a veil of fine chain and silk. Long fingers—too many joints, Olivia thought—sorted something that looked like powdered starlight into a scale-pan.

The figure looked up.

They didn’t smile. They recognized.

“Well,” the vendor said, voice like dry leaves and bells, “if it isn’t Miss LaDonna of the Quiet Council. I wondered when you’d wander back through my stall.”

Miss LaDonna’s smile was genuine, warm, and edged with steel. “I told you last time—if I survived the decade, I’d be back for the better stock.”

“And you did,” the vendor replied, glancing meaningfully at Olivia. “I see you’ve brought… company.”

Olivia straightened instinctively, suddenly very aware of herself.

Miss LaDonna rested a hand lightly on Olivia’s arm. “This is Olivia. Family.”

That was all she said.

The vendor inclined their head, just slightly. “Ah. Then welcome, Guardian. May your steps here be light.”

Olivia beamed, tail swishing before she could stop it.

Miss LaDonna turned her attention to the trays. “I’ll need thread. The real kind. Moon-drawn if you have it. And salts—three measures—no, not those, the other ones. The ones that remember.”

The vendor clicked their tongue softly and slid open a drawer. Inside were spools of thread that didn’t look like thread at all—each strand faintly luminous, shifting color with Miss LaDonna’s gaze.

“Moon-drawn,” the vendor said. “Harvested between eclipses. Expensive.”

Miss LaDonna hummed. “Yes, well. So am I.”

Olivia watched, utterly transfixed, as Miss LaDonna leaned in, examining the wares with practiced ease. There was no rush, no deference—just two old professionals circling each other.

“And the price?” Miss LaDonna asked.

The vendor named something that sounded less like a number and more like a sentence.

Miss LaDonna didn’t blink. “Too high.”

The vendor tilted their head. “Fair.”

They countered. Miss LaDonna shook her head, tapped one finger on the counter, and countered back, referencing something that had clearly happened decades ago and still mattered.

Olivia’s eyes went wide.

They weren’t arguing. They were dancing.

Each offer carried history, favors remembered, boundaries respected. When Miss LaDonna finally nodded once—sharp, decisive—the vendor smiled for the first time.

“Done,” they said. “As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with someone who understands the weight of things.”

Miss LaDonna produced her payment—pouring a small assortment from her bag into her palm. The vendor selected only part of it, pushing the rest back without comment.

As the items were wrapped—carefully, reverently—Miss LaDonna turned to Olivia.

“Watching closely?” she asked.

Olivia nodded eagerly. “That was incredible. You didn’t even… argue. You just knew.”

Miss LaDonna’s eyes softened. “That’s the trick, dear. In places like this, price is rarely about money. It’s about knowing what something is worth—and what it isn’t.”

She accepted the wrapped bundle and inclined her head to the vendor. “Until next time.”

“Until then,” the vendor replied. Their gaze lingered on Olivia for a heartbeat longer. “Walk well, Guardian.”

They stepped back into the flow of the Bazaar, Olivia practically vibrating with delight.

“Okay,” Olivia said, grinning up at Miss LaDonna, “that was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Miss LaDonna laughed quietly. “Oh, my dear. We’re only just getting started.”

They wandered on through a few more rows, the rhythm of the Bazaar settling into Olivia’s bones. She touched fabrics that hummed softly under her fingers, peered into boxes that politely refused to open for her, and laughed when a booth selling “Guaranteed Useful Objects” tried very hard to convince her that a slightly warm spoon would change her life.

Then she stopped.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It was a narrow booth tucked between two much larger ones, shaded by a canopy of layered scarves that shifted color like oil on water. Hanging from thin cords were dozens of small objects—charms, whistles, rings, little carved tokens—each gently rotating in the air as if moved by a breeze no one else could feel.

At the center hung one thing that made Olivia’s chest ache.

A collar.

Not a restraint—she knew that instantly—but a beautifully made band of soft, dark leather, worked with subtle silver inlay. The pattern wasn’t decorative so much as intentional: flowing lines that echoed motion, speed, joy. At the front was a small, smooth ring, not for a leash, but for adornment—tags, charms, choice.

It felt… hers.

“Oh,” Olivia breathed. “Oh. Miss LaDonna…”

Miss LaDonna followed her gaze and smiled, slow and knowing. “Yes. That one’s calling you.”

The vendor emerged from behind the hanging charms—an androgynous figure with skin like polished wood and eyes like embers banked low. They looked at Olivia for a long moment, then nodded once.

“You may have it,” the vendor said. “If you wish.”

“I do,” Olivia said immediately. She reached for her bag, already pulling out her pouch. “How much—”

The vendor raised a hand.

“No coin,” they said calmly. “No trinkets. No favors.”

Olivia froze. “…Oh.”

Miss LaDonna tilted her head, curious now.

“We take only music,” the vendor continued. “If you want this, you must sing.”

There was a brief, dangerous pause.

Sing.

Here.

In the middle of the Bazaar.

Olivia swallowed. Her ears flicked back, then forward again. Her heart was pounding, but beneath the nerves was something else—an itch, a pressure, the same feeling she’d had in her dream on the ridge.

“What kind of song?” she asked quietly.

The vendor smiled. “Yours.”

That did it.

Olivia stepped forward before she could talk herself out of it, nodding once. “Okay. I’ll sing.”

Word spread fast—Bazaar-fast. Foot traffic slowed. Vendors leaned out of booths. Beings of every shape and substance drifted closer, forming a loose, respectful ring around her. Someone near the back produced a small bundle of cloth and began passing it quietly from hand to hand.

Miss LaDonna stepped back, giving Olivia space, pride shining openly on her face.

Olivia closed her eyes.

She didn’t think about technique. Or embarrassment. Or who was listening.

She thought about running.

She sang without words at first—a low, resonant tone that started in her chest and rolled out into the air like a heartbeat. It rose and fell, shaped by breath and instinct, carrying joy, longing, and the fierce relief of finally being right in her own skin.

Then words came—soft at first, then stronger. A song about finding home. About speed and stars and moonlit forests. About choosing yourself, even when it’s terrifying. Her voice wasn’t perfect, but it was true, and the Bazaar leaned in to listen.

The scarves above the booth fluttered. The charms chimed in gentle harmony. Somewhere, far overhead, something howled in approval.

When Olivia finished, the silence lasted exactly one heartbeat—

—and then the vendor bowed deeply.

“It is yours,” they said, unhooking the collar and placing it reverently into Olivia’s hands.

As the crowd began to disperse, a bystander stepped forward and pressed the small cloth bundle into Olivia’s palms before slipping away without a word.

Olivia blinked, startled, and opened it.

Inside was a small mound of Bazaar currency—buttons, bits of wire, sea glass, knotted thread—warm from many hands.

She looked up, confused.

Miss LaDonna laughed softly. “Custom of the Bazaar, my dear. If people like the performance, they pay the performer. Freely given. No obligation.”

Olivia stared down at the bundle, then back at the collar in her hands, her tail swishing slowly, reverently.

“…I sang,” she said, a little dazed. “And they paid me.”

Miss LaDonna squeezed her arm. “Yes, you did.”

And somewhere in the vast, endless Bazaar, Olivia Harrison was Known just a little bit more.

They were still drifting on the afterglow of Olivia’s song when her phone chirped.

She startled slightly, then laughed at herself and pulled it out, tail swaying behind her as she read the message.

Charles: Lunch is waiting at the Food Court, if you ladies are hungry. Miss LaDonna knows the way.

“Oh thank the stars,” Olivia said, patting her stomach. “I didn’t even realize how hungry I am again.”

Miss LaDonna smiled knowingly. “You sang in the Bazaar, dear. That alone would earn you lunch twice over. Come along.”