Beatrice slipped out of the palace just before the sun reached its highest point, the afternoon air still clinging to the weight of late summer warmth. She wore a hooded cloak of soft navy linen, plain enough not to attract attention, and moved briskly through the garden gates.
No guards tried to stop her. She had timed this well.
The townsquare was alive, as always. Merchants barked out prices, children ran with ribbons trailing behind them, and the scent of sugared pastries drifted over the cobbled streets. But Beatrice saw none of it. Her eyes scanned every vendor, every stall, every gray-haired man with weathered hands.
She returned to the same spot where she'd seen him days ago. The wooden vegetable cart was there, unmanned. A different vendor now sold apples nearby, whistling softly as he arranged his produce.
Beatrice lingered.
