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I place my basket beside it.

Nessa shuts the book.

“That looked interesting,” I say.

“It isn’t.”

“Good. Interesting ledgers are usually evidence of theft.”

She finally looks at me. Her warm brown eyes are ringed by shadows left by poor sleep.

“Are you accusing me of stealing?”

“I’m accusing you of being terrible company.”

“Then you should leave.”

“I brought food.”

Her attention drops to the small pastry wrapped in cloth atop my basket.

“Acceptable company,” she amends.

I unwrap it. Steam still rises from the split crust, carrying the scent of onions, root vegetables, and a trace of rendered fat. The baker’s youngest burned his hand yesterday, and his mother repaid my treatment with two pastries despite my refusal. I ate one on the walk here.

Nessa reaches for the second, then hesitates.

“You need this more than I do.”

“I already ate.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

She studies my face.

“Most of it,” I admit.

Her mouth curves, though the expression vanishes quickly. She breaks the pastry in half and offers one portion to me.

“Nessa.”

“Eat it or watch me throw it into the street.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No. Food has value.”

“Unlike my dignity?”

“That has never fetched a decent price.”

I accept the smaller half because arguing will only let the pastry cool. Nessa takes a bite of hers and closes her eyes while she chews. Warm food has become rare enough to deserve reverence.

The market presses around us beneath a low grey sky. Canvas awnings snap in the wind. Vendors stand behind tables laden with meager winter stores, repaired tools, coarse cloth, and vegetables too bruised for the stronghold kitchens. Customers move slowly, searching for what they need while calculating what they can surrender.

A woman asks the price of barley at the neighboring stall and walks away after hearing it.