"No one's looking at us," Wrema says softly, moving a little away from Hera -- though still holding her hand -- to study several brightly-colored pieces of cloth hanging off the nearest table. They're mostly just for drawing the eye to the wares, as part of the table's display, but she doesn't know that. It's so pretty . . . but she knows it's better not to touch things.

Sucasa puts her free hand to her mouth, biting on the tips of her own fingers for a moment, an old, nervous gesture from when she was very small.

"I don't think anyone can see us right now." Except for all the people who can, but there's no sense of attention like there was out on the street.

"Should we look for things? That might be like what we have to sell?"