The market smelled of crushed leaves and sun-warmed earth, the air thick with the sharp, comforting scent of dried herbs, resin, and oil. Olivia moved through the narrow aisles, touching them and remembering her past day.
Her fingers brushing over bundles of rosemary, jars of crushed myrrh, and stacks of parchment-thin willow bark. Damon followed closely behind, no longer the cold, calculating duke but simply a man beside her, sleeves rolled up, hair falling a little out of place.
"How do you even tell which leaf is good?" he asked, holding up two nearly identical sprigs of thyme.
Olivia glanced at them and smirked. "The one in your right hand is fresh. The other's been dried too long—it's lost its oils."
Damon blinked, then handed over the fresher one like a lost child. His eyes wandered to the silent man behind them. If you would not look at him, you would forget he was here.
He did not speak, did not look at them and did not react to anything they did.
