The market was chaos.
Clara hadn't realized how loud it would be until she was standing in the middle of it. Voices overlapped in every direction-vendors shouting prices, buyers arguing back, carts rattling over uneven stone. Somewhere nearby, someone was frying something in oil, and the smell drifted through the air thick and sweet.
Veronica stood beside her, still wearing Clara's face.
Her posture was too straight. Too composed. Even disguised as a commoner, there was something about the way she held herself that didn't belong here.
People moved around them like water around a stone.
Veronica's honey-colored eyes swept slowly across the market street.
"Why is everyone yelling?" she asked.
"They're selling things," Clara said.
"That requires yelling?"
"It helps."
Veronica looked deeply unconvinced.
They walked deeper into the street. Wooden stalls stretched endlessly in both directions, shaded by faded cloth canopies. Fruits piled high in baskets- bright red berries, deep purple grapes, pale peaches dusted with a faint fuzz.
Clara stopped at one stall and examined the display.
Perfect.
Bright red strawberries sat in shallow wooden crates, their color almost glossy under the sunlight.
"Excuse me, sir. How much for half a kilo of strawberries?"
"Seven coppers."
"How about five?"
The vendor shook his head immediately. "No can do, ma'am. If you haven't heard the news, there's been an onslaught of beast wolves near the farms. Prices are getting high."
Clara frowned slightly.
Beast wolves? That explained why the berries looked so freshly picked but were priced higher than expected.
Before she could respond, Veronica suddenly stepped forward.
"My brother and the knights are already on a mission to eliminate every wolf within the Empire."
The seller blinked at her.
"…Your brother? You mean the prince?" The man looked at "Clara" like she said something humorous.
Veronica opened her mouth.
Clara immediately stepped in.
"What she means," Clara said quickly, "is that the Imperial Knights are already working to solve the problem."
The merchant shrugged.
"But they haven't solved it yet, haven't they?" He tapped the wooden crate of strawberries. "Seven coppers."
Clara sighed theatrically and leaned over the stall, examining the fruit with exaggerated scrutiny.
"These berries are small."
"They're fresh."
"And that one is bruised."
"It's not bruised."
"It absolutely is." Clara pointed. "Look at that."
The vendor squinted.
"That's a shadow."
"Hmm." Clara picked one up, turning it between her fingers. "And this basket is barely half a kilo."
"It is half a kilo!"
"Maybe before the wolves ate the rest."
The man crossed his arms. "Six coppers."
Clara gasped softly like she had just been insulted.
"Six? For berries this small? I'm doing you a favor taking them off your hands."
"You're not doing me any favors."
Clara turned dramatically as if preparing to walk away.
"Come on," she said to Veronica. "There's another stall down the street."
"Five and a half," the merchant said quickly.
Clara stopped.
She turned back slowly.
"Five."
"Six."
"Five."
"Five and a half."
Clara stared at him for a long moment.
Then she reached into her pouch and placed five copper coins on the counter.
The merchant sighed deeply.
"…Fine. Take them."
Clara smiled brightly as she accepted the basket.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
They stepped away from the stall.
After a few moments, Veronica spoke.
"Clara, you should've told me to bring some money."
Clara waved her hand dismissively.
"Don't worry. We managed to buy the strawberries for five coppers, right? See? I told you, princess. I'm a haggling master."
Veronica looked at her strangely.
"So you've been haggling this whole time?"
"…Yes."
The princess tilted her head slightly.
"Seriously? I thought we paid you fairly."
Clara glanced at her.
"Well," she said lightly, "I still haven't received my salary."
Veronica seemed she was contemplating.
"…What?"
Clara continued strolling through the market, casually eating one of the strawberries.
"Then I promise to double your salary."
Double it? Aren't I already receiving millions?
"It's okay, princess. No need to feel guilty."
"I'm not feeling guilty." Veronica snapped. "And don't call me princess. Address me properly by calling me Your Highness."
"Sure, princess."
Veronica glared at her.
Clara only laughed.
"And besides," Clara continued, lifting the basket of strawberries slightly, "other ingredients like milk and sugar are going to be cheaper."
***
"Clara, my feet are screaming," Veronica complained, though she was currently vibrating with adrenaline. She was leaning against a soot-stained brick wall, her hood pushed back just enough to reveal eyes that were wide and shimmering. "Is this the 'Experience' you promised? Blisters and the scent of fried onions?"
"Almost," Clara said, weaving through the crowd and returning with two parchment cones filled with something hot and glistening. "But first, the ritual. These are 'Honey-Glazed Potato Crisps.' They're salty, sweet, and probably eighty percent grease."
Veronica took a crisp between two delicate fingers as if it were a rare specimen. She took a bite. CRUNCH. Her haughty expression wavered. She closed her eyes, savoring the oily, sugary goodness. "I am beginning to suspect that the Imperial Chefs are part of a conspiracy to keep joy away from the Royal Family," she muttered, reaching for another.
"It's not a conspiracy, Your Highness. It's just hard to taste the joy when everything is served on a silver platter by a man who's afraid you'll execute him if the soup is lukewarm."
Veronica snorted softly, though she tried to hide it behind another crisp. Grease glistened faintly on her fingertips now, and she stared at them in mild horror before licking the sugar away with surprising practicality.
A moment passed.
Then she took another crisp.
"And you're saying," Veronica said thoughtfully, "that all of this-" she gestured vaguely to the noisy street, the shouting vendors, the drifting smoke from nearby food stalls, "-exists outside the palace every day?"
"Every day," Clara said, leaning beside her against the wall.
Veronica looked down at the cone in her hands.
"…And the Royal Kitchen has never once served me this."
"Tragic, I know."
Veronica slowly reached for another crisp.
Then another.
Clara watched the speed at which they were disappearing and raised an eyebrow.
"Careful, Your Highness. At this rate you'll finish the entire cone before we even reach the sugar stall."
Veronica stiffened slightly, clearly offended.
"I am pacing myself."
She ate another one immediately.
Across the street, a vendor loudly slammed a pan against a stove, sending a burst of sparks into the air. Veronica's eyes flicked toward it instinctively, curiosity lighting her expression again despite herself.
"…What is that one making?" she asked.
Clara followed her gaze and grinned.
"Oh, that?"
She pushed away from the wall.
"That's where we're getting the next snack."
Veronica straightened immediately, tossing the empty parchment cone aside with the dignity of someone pretending she hadn't just devoured its contents. "Lead the way then. If this city has more conspiracies against the Royal Kitchen, I intend to uncover them personally."
They stepped back into the flow of the crowd. Clara moved easily between passing carts and shouting merchants, while Veronica trailed half a step behind, her gaze darting everywhere- taking in the cluttered stalls, the sizzling pans, the clamor of bargaining voices.
The street was louder here. Someone was roasting nuts in a shallow iron pan. A butcher shouted prices over the bleating of a tethered goat. The scent of honey, smoke, and fried batter hung thick in the evening air.
Veronica slowed slightly, turning her head as if trying to absorb everything at once.
"…It's noisy," she said after a moment.
"That's called people living," Clara replied.
Veronica made a thoughtful sound, though she didn't argue.
Just then, the sound of a jaunty, frantic fiddle cut through the noise. In the center of the square, a group of musicians- a flutist, a drummer, and a man with a scarred lute- began to play. It wasn't the measured, mathematical music of the palace balls. It was loud, earthy, and had a heartbeat.
Commoners began to link arms, forming a messy, spinning circle. Feet scuffed the cobblestones, bodies grooving in uneven rhythm, laughter and shouts rising with the spin.
"They're… colliding," Veronica noted, her brow furrowed. "There is no footwork. No etiquette. It's just chaos."
"It's called a folk dance, Your Highness," Clara said, her own feet tapping against the stones. A sudden, mischievous spark lit up her chest. She turned to the Princess and offered her hand, palm up. "Would you like to try? No magic. No titles. Just the rhythm."
Veronica looked at Clara's hand, then at the spinning circle of strangers. "I am a daughter of the Emperor. I do not 'jig.'"
"Of course. My mistake," Clara smirked, pulling her hand back. "I forgot the Great Princess of the Aethelgard Empire is defeated by a simple three-step beat. Very understandable."
Veronica's eyes snapped to Clara's. "I am defeated by nothing."
She snatched Clara's hand. Her grip was tight, her palm warm. "Lead the way, Tutor. But if I trip, I'm turning the musicians into frogs."
They didn't join the center right away. Clara led her to the edge of the crowd, catching the beat. One-two-hop. One-two-hop. Veronica was stiff at first, her body conditioned for the rigid waltz of the nobility. But as Clara spun her, the Princess's laughter- a rare, unpolished sound- broke through her haughty mask.
"You're overthinking it!" Clara shouted over the drums. "Stop trying to lead the music and let it push you!"
For a moment, as the fiddle hit a soaring high note, they were swept into the main circle. Someone grabbed Veronica's other hand, and she didn't flinch. She was pulled into the centrifugal force of the dance, her rough cloak swirling around her legs.
In the blur of motion, Clara caught glimpses of the Princess. Her soot-stained face was flushed pink, her hair was escaping her hood in wild silver wisps, and she was actually smiling- not a smug smirk, but a look of pure, unadulterated girlhood.
The music reached a crashing crescendo. As the final drum beat echoed, the crowd erupted into cheers. Clara and Veronica were thrown together by the momentum, Clara catching the Princess by the waist to keep her from toppling.
They stayed like that for a beat too long-breathless, hearts hammering against their ribs, the smell of woodsmoke and honey between them.
Veronica looked up at Clara, her violet eyes soft and dazed. The haughty banter was gone, replaced by a quiet, startled vulnerability.
"My heart is… loud," Veronica whispered, her hand resting on Clara's shoulder.
Clara cleared her throat, gently steadying her. "That's just the adrenaline, Your Highness. Or the grease."
Veronica blinked, the mask sliding back into place, though it was slightly crooked. She pulled away, smoothing her messy cloak. "Yes. The grease. Most likely. It's a very aggressive potato."
She turned away to hide her face, but Clara saw the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling just a little.
"We should go," Veronica said, her voice regaining its imperial edge. "Before I decide to buy the lute player and make him play in my garden every morning."
"Whatever you say, princess" Clara teased, falling into step beside her.
As they walked back toward the carriage, the distance between their hands was barely an inch, and neither of them moved to increase it.