“I’ll have your moonkin rind and three hours off you,” she finally said.
“What about us?” asked Ell.
“No need. That’ll pay for the lot.”
“But we could split the hours, one for each of us,” insisted Saturday. There he was, thought September, the boy who wanted to protect her. Who gave her his favor.
Glasswort Groof laughed. It sounded as though it came from underwater. “I don’t want your time! I want hers. She’s got a Heroine’s Hours to barter with, and that’s worth ever so much more than you could shake out of your pockets, even if you had them, my jolly shadow-boys. As for her rind, it’s had the sun on it. Fat and gold as a pat of butter. I want it, and I will have it.”
“I’m not a heroine,” September said softly. “Not this time. I’m a Fairy Bishop. I’ve work to do.”
“Bishop’s Hours are fine by me, however you want to call yourself, upsider.” Groof leaned back on the rail of the booth, in her element.
September sniffed and picked at something imaginary on the ruff of her coat. “Well,” she sighed, “the rind you can have, but how about we settle on a half hour and call it clear?” September had a shrewdness in her she’d hardly begun to use, and out it came with banners flying. She was not about to give up three whole hours-why, that was forever! She’d gone with her mother to buy seed and feed and greens plenty of times. She knew the price on the barrel was rarely the price you had to pay.
Glasswort clapped her hands. “Good girl! Oh, Skinflint-Pan bless my generous heart! Humans never want to haggle it down these days. Firstborn? Yep, spit in the hand, deal’s done. Never thought of saying, ‘What about the second-born? Or better yet, let me keep my blubbering, clumsy children and will you take a nice armoire from the hall?’ Now. I can’t take less than two Hours, my sweet little celery root. You’d be leaving me bereft and cheated. Times being what they are.”
September pretended to consider it, picking at some invisible fluff on the ruff of her wine-colored coat. “How about fifteen minutes and a kiss? I’m not feeling terribly weepy at the moment, but I’m sure I could think of something sad and summon up a Phial or two to seal it.”
Glasswort frowned deeply. The corners of her mouth glittered. “Tears must be genuine, my dear, or they’re worth nothing at all. I could make you weep, if I liked. Making children weep is easy, as easy as pulling potatoes. But I don’t want your crying. I want your time. An hour and a half, and not a minute less, and I’ll have that kiss, too. Second Kisses aren’t as premium, but they’re steady money.”
“I think we could hitch the Eel.” September shrugged. “I saw a man jump the rails into a grain car out on the tracks by the creek. Didn’t look that hard.”
Glasswort Groof bawled laughter. “You try it! I’d love to watch. I’d be telling that tale for ages. You’ll end up fried as dinner, kid. You don’t want to know what an Eel’s third rail looks like. An hour and a quarter, the kiss, and a lock of your hair-final offer, take it or leave it.”
September made a gargling, sniffing, spitting noise in the back of her throat as she’d seen her father do when he didn’t want some butcher to know what he thought of the price of beef. “Show me a line of folk waiting to buy those tickets, and I’ll take the price you set. No?” She turned around, looking behind her. September was enjoying the pantomime. It occurred to her that this was a grown-up pleasure, a game like jacks or rummy. The older, wiser part of her thrilled to it. “Nobody? The rind and one hour, then. No Kiss, no Tears, and my handshake on the deal.” September stuck out her hand.
Groof hooted in delight, spat in her hand (her spit globbed bright magenta), and shook on it.
“Well,” September said somewhat nervously, now that it was done. “What’s an hour in the scheme of things? Can I choose when to spend it?”
“ ’Fraid not,” the Goblin admitted. “Buyer’s Market. But like you say, what’s an hour?”
September squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. She expected it to hurt, as it had when the Glashtyn took her shadow, but all she felt was the warm hands of the Goblin girl on her forehead, and a single sharp tick of pain, like a hand snapping into place on a clock face.
“But child, you can’t go to the Revel looking like that,” Groof whispered confidentially, now she had the Hour safe in hand. “You’ll shame your folk back home. Do you want everyone to think your world is a no-account country whose chief export is grimy, determined girls?”
“I look fine!” September protested. The red coat pulled defensively around her, quite huffy at the implication.
A-Through-L grinned through his great long whiskers. “Oh, but don’t you want to dazzle Halloween when you see her? When we-well, when he-goes to see his grandfather finally, he’ll make sure he has been bathed up right! He might even invest in a cravat! Oh!” Ell stopped as though he had just thought of a terrible, wonderful thing. “Do you think there’s a shadow of the Municipal Library in Tain?” He sat down suddenly on his dark haunches as though the thought had never occurred to him before, swirls of worried, hopeful violet moving in his tail.
September had not thought much about what might happen when she met her shadow. Did she want to dazzle it? It’s really like seeing a school-friend who moved away years back, she thought. You want to look nice, but you don’t want to make them feel poorly. Not if you want to make friends again.
While she considered this, the Market went to work.
On the other pedestal, on the other violet velvet pillow, a dress slowly formed out of mist and shadow.
It was like no other dress September had ever seen. Just looking at it made her feel shabby in her faded, re-sewn birthday dress and old red coat. It was orange, to be sure. No dress that was not could tempt her. But it was a dark, reddish, grown-up orange, stitched with droplets of gold. Garnets hung on its plunging neckline. The shimmery copper-crimson skirt had soft, draping tiers held up by jewelled black rosettes. A deep, dark green silken rope circled the waist three times and a pair of bright copper pocket watches dangled from the slim bustle.
It was too old for her. It was too fine and knowing. September, a practical and still very young girl from the fields of Nebraska, found that, for no reason at all, it felt to her strangely dangerous. Her red coat’s fur collar bristled and it drew in close around her as if to say, You don’t need that trussed-up thing. I can keep you safe. I don’t want company.
“That’s a lady’s dress,” whispered September.
“It’s a Watchful Dress,” beamed Groof proudly. “Made in the Blunderbuss Bluffs by Banderos of the first rank. It’ll never let you down-and I’ll pin a pretty brooch on it for no charge. When the stone goes dark, you’ll know your Hour’s gone.” With a flourish, a pin appeared in the Goblin girl’s hand and she stuck it on the breast of the Watchful Dress. It was very pretty, silver, with a glowing misty white stone surrounded by tiny, tiny gems like speckles of hoarfrost.