The Bale That Sold Before Agata Pern Got There

The frost held its ground last night instead of pushing further. Agata Pern says this is the sign the almanac talks about — the turn, not the deep cold yet. She was at the Bazaar before the second bell anyway, in case the almanac was wrong.

One bale of wool came in on the Kael Dorn carts before first light. Six marks two drams, carded, decent lanolin still in it. She heard the price shouted from two stalls back and knew by the shape of the crowd that she was too late. It sold inside the hour. She watched the last fistful of it weighed out to a woman from Guild Row who got there walking, not running, because she lives closer.

Agata went back to the Karvel’s bank instead, the way she has gone back for three weeks now. The moss there is thinner since the frost — it comes up in smaller handfuls, more dirt caught in the roots, more rinsing before it is any good for packing a wall. She rinsed it twice at the public trough on Mulov Street, wrung it, laid it on the step to drain, and said nothing about the wool to the woman next door who asked.

Passing the Archive Steps on an errand for my mother, I saw a face I did not know, sitting where the clerks sit when they go to eat, writing something with the particular stillness of someone who wants you to believe she has always sat there. New faces arrive in this city the way frost does — overnight, without asking anyone’s permission to hold ground. I did not stop.

The gulls are still at the eastern mole, an eleventh morning. One bale does not undo three weeks of empty stalls in an hour. Agata’s moss will dry on the step whether or not the next cart brings more wool, and I mean to see which one she reaches for first when both are finally in the house at the same time.