He doesn't understand her.
"I don't understand you," she says, exasperated. "What's wrong with it; the color is lovely."
The color is blue. In Zuko's opinion there is nothing actually wrong with blue. Blue is blue, and that's fine. Pretty. Adequate. Whatever. He's used to blue. In fact, Zuko is more than used to blue; he's resigned to it. Blue seas all around him, blue skies always above him, blue eyes looking at him—okay, fine. He can deal with blue. But blue is not the problem.
"It's cheap." This is not praise but Katara ignores his condemnation with practiced, and artfully fake, obliviousness.
"A bargain." She smiles. "Master Iroh always says that the only thing better than finding what you're looking for is—"
"Don't say it," he warns, getting nothing but a second smile, blithe and unrepentant, in return. Zuko wonders if Uncle's presence would've made this latest shopping stroll more bearable but past experience tells him otherwise; this certain brand of madness cannot be curbed, only endured.
After all, it's not like there is anything important to be done, oh no. Certainly, not like there's an Avatar to find or a prince's honor, throne, and birthright to redeem. No, nothing like that. At least not when there's a market to ferret through for knickknacks, rubbish, and oversized pieces of decorative buffoonery. In this matter, at least, Katara is marginally saner than Iroh; she rarely buys items that are not needed.
But rarely does not mean never.
"I think it will make a nice robe. Don't you agree?"
"You have robes. Nice ones," he bites out. "Why get something that looks like it was stolen off a peasant's back?"
Katara sighs and folds the length of cloth back into order. "Because silk stains easily and is a pain in the—well, everything to clean; I need something more adaptable for the changing weather, anyway. And it does not look at all like it was 'stolen off a peasant's back,' not in the least."
The last bit is added for the shopkeeper's benefit and Zuko glares at him in retribution. Victory brings its own failure though, as the glare succeeds in cutting the fabric's price in half and they walk out of the shop with yards of blue in tow.
"Your skills of negotiation are miraculous as ever, Prince Zuko," she pipes. "Lucky for me that we ran into each other."
"Ran into each other" is Katara language referring to her disappearing from the watchful attention of the crew despite implicit warnings/orders to remain in sight and Zuko's resulting time consuming hunt for her among the crowded market. Once upon a time the vanishing act was forgivably rare, allowable; now she flees as soon as the anchor sinks an inch below the water. It seems amazingly dense to have to repeatedly explain the various dangers available to a small, pretty girl of thirteen, a girl who usually manages to give a fairly convincing impression of having more wits than hair, yet Zuko ends up having to bark reminders at her time after time after time after time. No matter how often he explains, or what volume he does it, Katara does not seem to understand her position in the situation.
Ironically, having acquired the fabric means they (well, she, really, but having tolerated the foolishness for so long makes it seem cowardly to seek escape now) are now obligated to purchase countless other apparently necessary and entirely trivial items. A new pair of scissors (the old ones are sluggish), half a dozen needles of various size (the old ones are dull), oceans of thread (she's out of green, and yellow, and isn't this the nicest orange, let's get more), handfuls of buttons, etc etc. The wasteful intricacy with which the items are found is surpassed only by the ridiculous amount of consideration Katara lavishes upon selecting each one. A button is inspected from every tiny angle, a needle stabbed at everything within testing range. The thread selection almost breaks Zuko; Katara goes from spool to spool and back again enough times that he begins wondering how many it would take to knit a noose and strangle her. Or him. Whatever ends the torture, he doesn't care, only, blessed ancestors, let it end.
By the time they finally finish, having walked through the whole market thrice over, Zuko's patience is in tatters. Ever the contrast by his side, Katara looks satisfied and serene.
"Thank you," she says when they return to the docks. "You were a great deal of help."
The tatters snap. "Wonderful. I am so glad this day wasn't a complete waste time for everyone. Maybe in your infinite spare time you can knit a sweater for the Avatar. That is if we ever actually manage to find him sometime between shopping trips." Furious, he ignores the tightening of her mouth. "We don't have a single inkling of whether anyone has so much as mentioned the Avatar around here but at least the ship will have new curtains."
"A troop of Earthbenders passed through a month ago. They were heading to Omashu to meet with its king about expanding courier services; they mention new improvements in the design being inspired by airbending. Two month before that there was an oracle babbling about resurrection but he turned out to be a charlatan and they ran him out. But," she raises her eyes to stare at him over the packages in her arms, "there were a couple of silk merchants who returned from the Southern provinces saying they were impressed by the shrine relics seen there. Antiques from mountain villages. Mountain villages that remember trading goods with certain temples set on certain high mountaintops."
Zuko stares. Katara shrugs. "People come to the market to talk as much as they do to shop. Friendly chatter helps grease the bargaining wheels. Plus, who's going to guard their tongue around a thirteen-year-old girl buying soap and buttons?" Adjusting her grip, Katara turns away with a deliberately casual nod. "I bet the ship is finished restocking by now; we shouldn't keep them waiting. I'm sorry, by the way, for leaving without permission. Again."
Zuko does not say thank you. Zuko does not say I'm sorry. Zuko says nothing to the girl by his side, the girl who is thirteen years old, whom he has known for five years and counting, and who is capable of surprising him with mystic regularity. But then she's the girl who has never asked for his gratitude or apologies.
Wordlessly, he takes the heavy bundles from her hands and carries them to the ship.
They sail south.
