Title: Crowning Tristan
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardust in any way. This is just for fun. Hetham is in the movie, but his name is mine.

Act Two: Market Town

Chapter Six

The Slaughtered Prince inn was, despite its name, a rather cheerful place. When the guests had cleared out and the drinkers were yet to arrive, sunlight from the second-level windows shone brightly into the main room, sparkling off candelabras and well-scrubbed wood, as well as the water that Yvaine's careless hand occasionally flicked into the air.

She was washing dishes, an act that would horrify her mother but was very much appreciated by Hatha, who worked beside her. Yvaine had slept – or lazed about pretending to sleep – until noon when Hatha came to ask after her breakfast. Bored and unwilling to order anyone around, Yvaine had offered to help the innkeeper with her daily tasks. This was met with polite protest, but was very much appreciated when she insisted.

"But I'll not have you ruining that dress," Hatha said firmly. "It's a miracle that travel hasn't spoiled it already. We'll wash it. Come this way; you're about the same size as my daughter..."

And so Yvaine had borrowed a rust-coloured outfit that was uncomfortably similar to what the witch wore in that other inn, but she appreciated the gesture and it was, indeed, much more suitable for housework.

Hatha really didn't need help, but she enjoyed the company. So far they had remade all the used beds with fresh linens, filled the washtubs, scrubbed everything – including her dress – hung it out to dry, swept the floors, checked the food stocks, served the occasional guest and now, with much time saved by an extra pair of hands, they were washing the extra crockery that hadn't been used in quite a while.

All the while they'd talked pleasantly of nothing in particular, and Yvaine took silly joy in some of the more mundane aspects of life on Earth. For one thing, the rainbow sheen of soap bubbles in the sunlight; perfectly round, they glittered beautifully, changing colour with every angle...

Suddenly realising that she was staring, Yvaine pulled her attention back to Hatha, hoping it wasn't too obvious that she'd never played with soap before.

If Hatha noticed anything, she ignored it. "So we lived in that small room down the hall for almost three years before the old man finally died. I swear he was hanging on just to spite us. Everyone knew his own son was never going to come back from the city just to run this old place, and it doesn't matter how drunk he was; the town mayor and a warlock were in the room that night, and he publically swore it on a magical flower." Hatha gave a little, triumphant laugh. "By the time he was gone and buried, Hetham and I already had three little ones crowding our room. But it was worth it; everyone who comes to Market Town knows the Slaughtered Prince. We've got more money set aside for our youngsters than most anyone else."

"Where are you children?" asked Yvaine, who had only seen the youngest son all day.

"Oh, they're about somewhere. Kelsa's at school today and my boys..." she shook her head and glanced at the door. "Rugal will be in the barn with your horses. The others should be off with their father at the carpenter's – Heth's replacing two of the oldest tables; nearly killed a customer when a bad leg fell out of one – but they'll probably have run off to see the dancing girls again. Heth might just be with them."

She didn't sound particularly concerned, which struck Yvaine as odd. "Is that... normal?"

"He's just that sort of man," she shrugged, then noticed Yvaine's expression. "Oh, don't you worry about me, dear. Heth might like a good show but he always comes back to my bed eventually," she winked. "I know he's a grouch, but I love him, and he's a good father. I might not be as lovely as you anymore, but I couldn't have found a better man to marry."

Hatha paused in her washing, looking at Yvaine, who was absently flicking water into the sunlight, watching it fall in sparkles while her hands rinsed the plates. She was smiling widely, and the light behind her seemed to brighten her very skin. Then Hatha saw the small white flower than was twined in her braided hair.

"Aha," she declared. "That's it, then. I was wondering why you're so happy."

"What do you mean?"

"Yvaine m'dear, no one who washes dishes was ever as cheerful about it as you; not even someone who's never done it before – yes, I can tell. If you want to pretend you're not from a rich family, try not to wear that sort of dress or travel with four well-bred stallions," she advised. "Anyway, I saw Una's boy give you that flower yesterday. And if talk of my down-to-earth marriage was enough to make you smile like that..." She shrugged elaborately.

Yvaine blushed, but couldn't control her smile. She playfully threw water at Hatha, who returned in kind. "All right," she admitted. "Tristan asked me to marry him. Yesterday, if you must know."

"I must indeed. Come on, tell me more."

"Hatha!"

"Oh, indulge me," Hatha teased, lightly hitting her with the drying towel. "My Kelsa's too young and the boys will never admit such things to anyone. I haven't forgotten what it's like to be a young lover, you know."

Yvaine shook her head, baffled. "Why is it that everyone we meet wants to meddle in our business?" she asked the world in general, thinking of Captain Shakespeare's matchmaking efforts. "I thought marriage was supposed to be something between two people, not everyone who just happens to wander by."

"Oh, it is. I'm just not very respectful of that – shameless, really. Motherly habit," she explained with a laugh.

But Yvaine tilted her head and furrowed her brow. "What does being a mother have to do with being nosy?"

Hatha's smile dampened a little and she continued to dry the plates. "Doesn't your mother fuss over you, Yvaine? I can't imagine anyone not being interested in their own daughter's engagement."

To be honest, the answer was yes – Yvaine's mother was quite interested, and had made her opinion on the matter very, very clear. Once her anger had faded and Celeste's story was finished, Yvaine had tried to talk to her, to apologise for shouting and explain herself better, but... "She isn't speaking with me," Yvaine admitted.

The look on Hatha's face sank from mild worry to anger. "If your Tristan has a single shred of Una in him, he's a good boy, and I saw the two of you together; he adores you. What fault could she possibly find – isn't he rich enough?"

Sourly, Yvaine almost laughed. Money? What did the Moon care for money? "That's not it," she said, and offered no further explanation.

As before, Hatha did not press the matter. "Well, to answer your question – as a mother, I reserve the right to be infinitely curious about my children's lives, even if they won't willingly tell me. Sometimes it feels like the only way to know them; when they were small I could play with the boys as much as Kelsa, but now... well, they can be right hooligans at times, but we do still have the occasional pleasant evening 'round the fire, just the lot of us chatting. Still, I can't wait for one of them to find a nice girl and make me a grandmother. I never realised how much I would miss cleaning up after a jam-covered toddler." She smiled.

Yvaine was quiet for a moment. She'd never thought about having children – she wasn't even sure it was possible for a star and a human. Celeste had been born several thousand years ago, and entertaining her little sister was the closest experience Yvaine had to being a parent. Oh, she'd watched mortal families and laughed at the antics of children, idly wondering what it would be like, but...

Now it was tangible, within her grasp, and the idea sparked a warm feeling in her chest, as wonderful but entirely different to what she felt for Tristan. It was... It was happy and protective and delightful, and she could almost imagine holding a baby, her child–

But it might not be possible. Tristan might not want children. At the very least, it was much to early to think about that now. She shook her head, trying to put the matter aside, and went back to the task at hand; drying dishes and stacking them back on the shelves.

Hatha had watched her wander off in thought and said nothing, letting her be. At last the girl blinked and asked, "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Oh, nothing. I think we're done here, and it's getting cloudy again. I'm off to take the washing in. Are you coming?"

"Sure."

Come sunset, Yvaine was happily exhausted. Oh, walking the countryside all day wasn't relaxing either, but there was a great feeling of accomplishment in seeing results from her work, even if it was as mundane as clean plates and a tidy desk.

The bar was filling up. Hetham and his sons were back and two of them were serving drinks, chatting with the regulars. One of the boys – Yvaine had forgotten his name – was eyeing her appreciatively as she wiped her hands on a borrowed apron. She smiled back, but otherwise ignored him.

"Just hang it on a peg in the kitchen, dear," Hatha said of the apron, her hands too busy with paperwork to gesture. "Then you ought to get on upstairs before it gets busy. I'll bring up your supper – oh, and your dress; it isn't drying right, with all those layers." She finished logging a room as paid for and stood straight. "Just hang it in front of your fire – I'll send Rugal to light it for you."

"You're sure? I'm happy to help. There's not much else to do."

"Thanks, love, but I promised Una and your Tristan that I'd look after you, and I can't very well do that in a crowd." Hatha smiled, "Go on. You've been more than enough help already."

So Yvaine nodded and walked towards the door, fumbling with the apron strings on her back, when suddenly, she was grabbed from behind.

Panicking, she shrieked, then jerked away and turned to see– "Tristan!"

He was laughing, ignoring the glares of startled customers, and held up his hands in surrender. Yvaine kicked him anyway, more from the fright than actual anger. "Don't do that! You scared me! I thought you were a witch or a–"

"I'm sorry," he said, still chuckling, and before she could keep complaining he wrapped her in his arms, leaned over and kissed her.

Well. That made it rather hard to stay angry.

Yvaine gave in, snaking her arms around his neck, tightening the hug, letting him dip her backwards, and it was a perfect moment–

Until hoots and whistles from the crowd, cheering on the newcomer and his favourite barmaid, burst their bubble. Yvaine broke the kiss and stood straight, embarrassed and blushing. At the bar, Hatha's son looked disappointed, as did a handful of other men. Tristan noticed that, and it might have been why he kept a gentle hold on Yvaine's shoulders as he said, "I missed you."

She shook her head, annoyed but smiling anyway. "I missed you, too," she said, then her tone turned stern. "But if you ever do that again..."

Tristan laughed, leaning back to avoid her jabbing finger. "Okay, okay, I've learned my lesson. No more sneaking – I promise."

"Good," said Yvaine, and then she laughed, too. "Help me with this apron, will you? I can't get it off."

Some time later, Yvaine and Tristan were curled up by the fire in their small room. He was sitting on the floor, against a bedpost, and she sat in his lap, leaning back, head resting on his shoulder. Their feet were stretched out towards the flames, and Tristan's arms were wrapped over hers, their fingers twined together. Both were quiet and relaxed, enormously comfortable.

Tristan's tall boots were flopped over by the door, his sheathed sword propped up beside them. Nearby were the overstuffed bags he'd brought from Wall, and a tray with two bare plates and used forks piled on it beside empty glasses. Yvaine's layered blue skirt hung inside-out over the only chair, drying. The window was slightly open, and on the wispy breeze came faint sounds of the night-time market. Both were lost in the calm warmth of flickering yellow flames.

Yvaine sighed, totally content, and closed her eyes as she lay against his chest. He looked down and smiled. For the first time since learning of it, Tristan didn't feel the weight of his mother's expectations. Whether Yvaine understood his troubles or simply didn't care about the crown, she hadn't asked about it, or what would happen next, or how things had gone in Wall. He'd briefly explained it all over dinner anyway, freely admitting his mistakes and fears, but Yvaine, who had seen so many similar problems forgotten over time, just asked, "But it worked out fine, didn't it?" and he had to agree.

They'd laughed over the pompous letter Tristan had picked up from Mr Banks; the village council had spared no expense. It was written on the largest, finest sheets of paper Mr Monday sold, in detailed and flowery language and with all ten signatures. It had been sealed with wax and given to Tristan with strict orders to see that the king received it promptly – he was not to lose, dirty, or otherwise damage it! Tristan had to muffle a smile before walking out of that house. Yvaine said, "I'd love to see his face when he finds out."

She'd asked about Dunstan and Frank, and somehow he ended up talking about his old wish to travel the world, see famous cities and exotic people, and she told him of some of the stranger cultures she'd seen, of different people whose lives she'd followed with fascination, including a Spanish prince, a wandering warlock, a beautiful con artist, and a flamboyant sea pirate who somehow managed to outsmart everyone who ever came after him. Tristan laughed, impressed by some of the long-dead man's antics, and the two of them wound up together by the fire, smiling peacefully, drowsily watching the flames.

Then a small, breathy voice came through the window. "Yvaine?"

By rights, something that quiet shouldn't have been heard, but it was perfectly clear to both of them and Yvaine sat up, smiling. "Celeste!" she said happily, and sprang to her feet. She reached out to pull Tristan up.

"Who's Celeste?"

"My sister. I always tell her stories when she's bored with our mother's lessons, and I promised one tonight. Come on, I want you to meet her."

Tristan gladly followed her to the window, and stood a little behind Yvaine as she pushed aside the curtain and leaned out. He could see dozens of stars out there, and wondered absently if they were all watching.

"I'm here, Celeste," Yvaine said brightly. "And I've got the perfect story. But first I want you to meet–"

"Mother says you can't tell me stories anymore."

The star's voice was small and sad. There was a long pause. "What?" Yvaine asked, bewildered. "Why not?"

"Mother says you have to come home. She's real angry, Yvaine. When will you be back?"

"I'm not coming back."

"But if you don't you can't shine or tell stories!"

Yvaine shook her head, brow furrowed, and raised her hands. "Celeste, I don't understand."

"Mother says you're not allowed to shine until you're home," said another, older voice. "Someone might realise what you are."

She snorted. "Just how does she expect to enforce that?"

The star paused, then said, "Come home. Now. It's not safe on Earth; you don't belong there. You have no idea–"

"Shut up, Nomi," snapped Yvaine. "I know what I'm doing."

"I doubt that. You're very young–"

"I am thirty million years old!" she flared. "I know what I'm doing!"

Still behind her, Tristan blurted out, "You are?"

Yvaine turned to him, amusement twisting her lips and draining a little of her anger. "Yes. But that is young for a star." She glanced between him and the sky, then held out her hand. "Come here."

He took it and stepped up to the window, leaning beside her and looking around. There were thousands of stars before them, and he had no idea which one was talking. Yvaine seemed sure, though, for she stared steadily in one direction and made a show of holding his hand.

"Celeste," she said, "I want you to meet Tristan."

Silence.

Yvaine frowned and looked around. "Celeste?" she called. "Nomi?"

Still no answer. Tristan looked at her and quietly asked, "Did I do something?"

"It's nothing you've done," Yvaine said tightly, realising. "It's what you are. Nomi!" she shouted. "Answer me!"

At last, Nomi said, "Mother made herself clear: We are forbidden to speak with you until you're home. We shouldn't even be here now."

Incredulous, Yvaine asked, "She thinks she can force me to change my mind? I love you – all of you – but I won't trade Tristan for more time with you!"

Nomi was silent for a moment. "Mother says to remember that you are a star, a creature of light, and too good to stay down there with a human."

Yvaine gaped, outraged. Tristan, who was insulted but not as deeply wounded, argued, "You weren't above talking to me before."

"We couldn't find Yvaine. It was urgent," Nomi defended– then caught herself and addressed her furious sister. "Humans are dangerous. Mother says–"

"What do you think, Nomi? And why won't she speak for herself?" Yvaine demanded. She rounded on the white globe. "Come on, Mother – speak up! You've never been shy about it before! Or are you afraid I might just be right?"

Tristan had never seen her quite this angry – neither, apparently, had the two or three people in the street below, who wondered just who she was shouting at. Gently holding her shoulders, he pulled her just a bit back inside, and she softened at his touch. She took a deep breath and calmed down.

"Nomi," she said coldly. "Tell Mother I won't follow orders. This is my life, and my choice. I'm happy here and I'm not going to be killed. Celeste..." she looked in another direction. "I'm sorry. I love you."

There was a quiet wail, and the distant sound of girlish sobs. "'vaine..."

Then Nomi's voice, fading fast, said, "Turn away, Celeste. Mother says we can't..."

"Mother says a lot of things," Yvaine told the vast, now silent sky. "That doesn't make her right."

Then, for lack of any other way to vent her frustration, she slammed the window shut. Jerking the curtains over it, she declared, "I'm not leaving. Ever. I'm not going to die here."

Tristan smiled a little, but had to be truthful and said, "She does have a point, Yvaine. It's not safe here, even if we could somehow hide what you are."

"I know that!"

Hands held up in surrender, he replied, "I know – I know you know. I just meant that now it makes sense why your mother's doing this."

"Oh?" Yvaine said. "Now you're an expert on my family? You didn't even realise what I am."

Tristan ignored the jibe. "She's afraid, Yvaine. All she knows is how bad it can be here. She loves you and she's terrified that something awful will happen."

Yvaine glared at him. "Yes, Tristan, I had gathered that much myself."

"But you don't really understand–"

"Don't understand?" she snapped, but Tristan held up his hands and stood firm against her temper.

"I've fought with my father before, but you never have – you've never defied her, and she's never had to deal with that. No wonder you're both so bad at it."

Her jaw was clenched and she stood stiffly, but didn't reply. Knowing he'd gotten through, Tristan softened his voice and added, "She doesn't know what else to do, and nothing you can say will force her to change her mind."

Yvaine didn't miss his not-so-subtle quotation. With a sigh she unfolded her arms and sat wearily on the bed. "She's my mother, Tristan. I love her as much as she loves me. I don't want to fight with her, or worry her. I just want her to be happy for us."

Joining her, Tristan said, "I don't think Father has ever stopped worrying about me – and, king or no king, I don't think he ever will." He shrugged and gave her a little smile. "Parents."

Yvaine shook her head and rubbed her eyes, fighting the quiet tears that Tristan saw anyway. "What do I do? What... can I possibly do?"

He put one arm around her, drawing her close. "I don't know," he said. "Keep going, I guess. Be patient. Let her see that you're happy here, and she'll come around."

She sniffled. "In thirty million years, Mother has never changed her mind about anything."

"Well... there's always a first time."

Yvaine just shook her head, buried her face in his shirt, and cried.

Morning came, as mornings always do, and Yvaine woke up slowly, curled in the white sheets. One hand was tucked under her pillow and she blinked a few times, seeing the now-familiar room brightened by grey light from the window. It was a cloudy day, lacking any cheer, and it suited her mood perfectly. She felt small and miserable; dim. Her thoughts were turbulent, angry and hurt, and she didn't know what to do.

Tristan, asleep beside her, seemed completely at peace.

Yvaine sighed and lay on her back, untangling her nightgown and trying to keep quiet. She felt bad for spoiling their evening with tears, and she had no idea how long he'd sat there with her, comforting, quietly supportive. He didn't try to make her talk more, as she might have if their positions were reversed; he just waited until her tears had dried, then nodded and smiled gently when she said she was going to sleep.

And she'd needed that sleep. The morning light made her mother's stupid choices seem more distant, and she could wrestle her temper into place. Tristan was right, of course; she had to wait, and it might be centuries before the Moon would relent. Yvaine was determined not to give in and ask for forgiveness – if she ever returned to the sky, it would be on her terms, and if her mother was displeased, that was just too bad. The Moon scolded her children fiercely, but had no way to physically punish or restrain them. Yvaine had no intention of being meekly obedient ever again.

Tristan shifted in his sleep, murmuring something, and she looked at him appreciatively. He really had been too nice about letting her cry for so long, especially when he had his own worries to deal with. It made her feel a bit guilty for adding her problems to that burden, but knowing Tristan, he probably would have insisted.

Sometimes Yvaine wondered if she might be idealising him a little; she knew very well that no one was perfect, and had seen him both annoyed and angry. Then again, this was a man who had seen no shame in repeatedly describing his True Love to a complete stranger. She smiled to herself – what did it matter? They were newly in love, to be married, and things were supposed to be perfect between them.

She shifted again, rolling to face him, and this time the movement woke him up. He blinked with the same stupid-looking groggy expression that he'd worn when transformed back by Sal, but when he smiled this time he said, "Yvaine."

"Good morning."

Tristan didn't sit up, but propped his head on one hand and asked, "You all right?"

She gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I'm just not used to fighting with her." She shrugged. "I'll be fine."

He nodded, thinking. Then he rolled over and reached for his vest, left somewhere nearby before he went to sleep. "I don't know if this'll cheer you up. I meant to give it to you yesterday – actually, I wanted to get it when I went to see Victoria – but it didn't seem like the right time."

He pulled the silver ring from one pocket and turned back around, lying down and offering it to her. Yvaine smiled as she took it, looking over the tiny gem and the polished band. "It's lovely," she declared.

"It belonged to my grandmother. Father gave it to me, to give to you. ...You do know what it is, don't you?"

"I think you might have mentioned that some other boy was off to buy one for Victoria, if that's what you mean," she teased. "It's an engagement ring?"

Tristan smiled and nodded, squeezing her hand. "I'm not doing this properly," he admitted. "I should've had it when I actually asked you."

"If you recall, I said yes anyway," she said, and moved to put it on – on the wrong finger, of the wrong hand.

"No, this one," said Tristan with a smile, and he took it back, lifted her left hand, and slid the ring into place. She admired it, turning her arm in the light, watching it sparkle. "Does it fit?" he asked.

"I think so; I've never worn a ring before." Yvaine smiled. "Thank you, Tristan," she said, and leaned over to kiss him.

It was, in her opinion, a very nice kiss; it lingered, deepened, and they might not have gotten up at all if Hatha hadn't chosen that extremely inconvenient moment to knock on their door.

"Yvaine? Tristan?" she called through the wood. "If you want breakfast you'll have to come down soon."

Tristan groaned and laughed, muffling it in his pillow. Yvaine fought down a giggle and called back, "Coming!"

Hatha's footsteps retreated, and Tristan shook his head. Glad to see her smile, he decided not to let it go. "Let's do something fun today."

"Fun?" Yvaine asked pointedly. "I think Hatha just spoiled that."

He chuckled and said, "No, I mean, let's be silly. Let's go riding, or to the market – something frivolous. My parents won't be here until tomorrow at least, and there's nothing else to do, and we haven't had a chance like this all week. I've never been to a magical market. Haven't been to many markets at all, really."

Yvaine smiled and nodded, brightening, and for a moment that was actually literal.

Market Town did not come by its name lightly; everything about it was so busy, full of life and colour and exotic smells, strange trinkets and loud voices. Unlit lanterns hung between the bright, fluttering fabrics that kept everyone shaded, and stalls were squashed between the stone or wooden structures. Though most of the town was made of normal, permanent buildings, in this vast open square vendors simply claimed a spot and set up shop for as long as they wanted; even now, at noon, some caravans were closed, their owners asleep inside. Most, however, were open for business, with salespeople eagerly calling to anyone who passed by.

They were a varied crowd. A few would have been able to walk through Wall unnoticed, but others... there were men in turbans and horned hats, women wearing long robes or elaborately embroidered dresses, black-skinned Africans and small Chinamen and veiled ladies chattering in some other unknown language. Musicians in several places demonstrated the instruments up for sale, and the drums from this stall here and the wooden flute from that one there overlapped to make a crazy, but rather welcoming atmosphere. There was no order to the place; paths between stalls were winding and narrow, changing every time vendors came and went. A broken wagon full of ale barrels blocked one path, and a furious argument that broke out near the animal pens made another route impossible.

Tristan looked every which-way as they wandered around, hand in hand, determined to have fun. Yvaine was smiling widely, and if he hadn't seen it he'd have never known she'd been crying. The endless displays fascinated her, and while Tristan stared, Yvaine jumped from one to another, looking at and touching everything. There were carpets, wicker baskets, maps, books and furniture; there was a toymaker, an old woman with sewing tools and a man whose pockets bulged with fine charcoal pencils. There was a hat seller and a shoe seller and many, many clothes sellers; strange glowing spheres were sold right beside candles and familiar oil lamps, and many stalls offered flowers, both natural and magical. There was a stall selling cheese and a stall selling rope, and a stall run by artists who barely deserved the name. One was filled with knitting, everything from scarves and hats to coats and – oddly – dresses; several offered herbs and medicines of questionable quality. There was a young man making portraits for anyone who would sit still, and a collection of wonderfully-smelling soaps. A fine stock of hunting tools was set up beside a stall brimming with delicate china, fishing tackle was sold beside a pet stall, and paper and fine pens – quill and fountain – were almost knocked over by the many bolts of fabric next door. Ceramic pots were piled high beside a clockmaker who offered both sundials and brass pocket watches that looked to be from England. Hunters sold animal pelts and assorted disgusting organs, and leatherworkers offered everything from belts to saddles. Every fifth stall seemed to offer jewellery or other useless but pretty trinkets made of anything from wood to ivory, while performers wandered about or stood beside upturned hats, singing badly or trying to juggle. It seemed like a never-ending carnival. There was even a puppet show.

Yvaine and Tristan soon collected a number of little items that were interesting and wanted but certainly not needed; neither cared. It was fun, and they had the money – for those vendors who accepted money – from the sale of the horses and caravan, as well as everything Sal had saved when she died. It was far more than they needed to pay for the inn, and with his father selling so many of their things in Wall, Tristan wasn't the least bit concerned about how much they spent; Yvaine was happy.

On the other hand, stars had no use for money, and she was completely unfamiliar with it. She understood, theoretically, that some things were far too expensive, but had no instincts whatsoever. When Tristan made an offhand remark about one man's jewellery being made of wood rather than gold, he'd had to explain it. Yvaine was quick to learn and interested in everything, but sometimes she took her new fiancé completely by surprise.

"What's 'chocolate'?"

He blinked. They'd been looking at a collection of bags in every size from mouse to mountain, looking for one to carry their new things in. Yvaine had stepped away to talk to the seller, and he thought she was asking for a price. Instead she came back and said quietly, "I smelled something; she said it was 'chocolate'. What is that?"

"All that time in the sky and you've never heard of chocolate?" Tristan asked, incredulous. "It's a food – a treat. It's wonderful. We always buy some at Christmas. Come on, let's have some." He offered his hand and she merrily took it. Following their noses (and getting a bit lost when passing a stall of noxious perfumes), they found the seller. This particular shop wasn't temporary; the buildings at the edge of the market square, like the Slaughtered Prince, were businesses catering to the constant flow of buyers and sellers, and this bakery apparently did very well to afford so much chocolate. They were obviously making more in the back, but on display were a number of huge, cooling cookies, and Tristan bought two of them.

"Here," he said. "The dark chips are the chocolate – careful, it's hot!"

Yvaine heeded him, but only until she took the first bite. He could see the moment that it touched her tongue; her eyes closed and she gave a small, totally contented moan, savouring the taste. Then she swallowed and immediately took another bite, looking delightedly at him. Her mouth was full and she couldn't speak, but she threw her free hand around his neck and gave him an awkward hug. Tristan laughed.

"It's wonderful," she said at last, licking each of her fingers clean. "Really–" lick "–really really wonderful."

"You're going to have a stomach ache, you know," said Tristan, "from eating all that so fast." He gestured to his own cookie, only slightly dented, and jumped back as Yvaine playfully tried to snatch it. "That's mine!" he laughed. "Thief!"

She just grinned and tried again. Tristan ate quickly.

They kept going, wandering past many, many sellers and often finding themselves in places they'd already been. Yvaine admired it all and asked him about most of it, wanting to learn everything about actually living on Earth. She was enraptured by tiny statues and painted fans, but had very little interest in jewellery. Tristan joked that she glittered enough anyway, but silently noticed that she hadn't been shining at all, not even by accident.

Eventually they came to the particular clothes stall Hatha had described. Yvaine was still wearing the borrowed rust-red dress, because her blue one would – as Hatha had pointed out – mark her as a rich woman, which might not be wise in this town. As it wasn't particularly suitable for travelling dirt roads anyway, the only thing they'd actually gone out to buy was a sturdier outfit.

The seamstress was a plump woman about Hatha's age, a friend of hers named Danja. She fussed over Yvaine and spent what seemed like hours showing off different colours and styles and many types of fabric. She had uncut bolts but most of her tables were full of second-hand garments, all tailored to fit their original owners. Danja promised that she could alter any of them by nightfall but, in the end, they found a skirt, top, and overdress in various shades of green that fit well enough already. Yvaine also found a cloak and nightdress but kept her old boots, even though Danja complained loudly that the blue-grey leather didn't match.

Tristan spent all that time waiting at the edge of the shop, bored but unwilling to leave Yvaine alone. He'd seen a handful of shady-looking men around, and though he wore his sword almost out of habit, he wasn't comfortable with using it – not, at least, against men who were still alive. He'd memorised the nearby display of hair ornaments and was, for the third time, seriously considering buying a rose-patterned comb for his mother when Yvaine finally emerged from the changing tent. She held her arms wide, showing off the outfit, but beyond the fact that it was green, long-sleeved, and girded with a broad leather belt, he couldn't say much about it.

"Well, what do you think?" Yvaine asked, tucking the snowdrop more securely into her hair. "Do you like it?"

After a moment of searching for any truthful opinion, he said, "You look lovely. But I thought you looked lovely in a bathrobe in a thunderstorm, so I'm not the best person to ask."

For a brief moment she frowned, vaguely wondering if she'd been insulted, then laughed and shook her head. She kissed his cheek. "All right, where do you want to go?"

Tristan led them on.