Releasing my hands he rose to collect the grazing horse, gathering the trailing reins in his fist. “I bought it for you as a present, and I would have you wear it.” “My uncle would doubtless not approve, my lord,” I reminded him gently. I meant to return it to you.” “I will not have it returned.” He looked seriously offended. “Faith, I cannot accept it, it would not be seemly. I flushed crimson, pulling ineffectually against his grasp.

“You’re not wearing the bracelet,” he observed. “He cast aside the mangled blade of grass and idly reached to capture both my hands in one of his, drawing them forward so that he could see my wrists. The breeze lifted my hair and the sun warmed my face, and I felt suddenly, gloriously alive.” We were jostled and bumped, but I found I did not mind it, and to my amazement I heard myself laughing as the final shreds of oppression fell away from me. I could only gape, wide-eyed, like an entranced child, and she laughed her lovely musical laugh, grabbing my hand to lead me down into the thick of the crowd. There were crowds here too, to be sure, but these were friendly country folk, their voices clear and plain, with honest faces scrubbed red by the wind and weather. It was a pleasant change to see the bright-striped awnings gaily ringing around the weathered market cross, and the sunlight beating cheerfully down upon the market square. “The markets of my memory were city markets, London markets, crammed into narrow streets or cobbled squares, with hoarse-voiced vendors hawking their wares and all around me the relentless press of people, people everywhere.

Mariana by Susanna Kearsley