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The old man shook his head as he retreated. “No. I’m no thief.”

Except everything in his demeanor told her he was.

He turned and hurried away, shuffling across the cobbles to his caravan.

While she had been talking to the woman about the goat, he’d put the table away and folded back the awning, and the caravan looked strangely naked and out of place among the other carts and stalls.

He moved to the pen of livestock to one side of the square, handed over a coin, and then led out a small donkey she assumed was his means of pulling the caravan.

The goat butted her knees again.

“I know, I know. We have to wait until he’s gone. I don’t want him to see me take you.” She rose to her feet, her fingertips on the top of the goat’s head.

Within minutes, the donkey was harnessed and the old man steered his caravan out of the square.

As soon as he turned down the main road out of town, she crouched again and began to work on the knot around the goat’s neck, keeping her fingers away from the twine.

Sometimes when she touched something, she deactivated it. Not often, but enough to make her wary.

She didn’t want a man with a rope around his neck to suddenly appear in the square.

No one was watching her that she could see. The sun was almost set, and where they were, crouched beside the bridge, was in a pool of shadow. But best to be cautious.

The rope was rough and hard to loosen, but she worked with her hands every day and her fingers were strong. After what felt like a lifetime, but was more likely ten minutes, she finally had it off.

The goat had stayed still while she worked, but the moment it was loose, it ran a few steps away from her.

She rose to her feet, arched her back, which was still stiff from a day spent bent over her workbench, and then looked over at the animal.

“I can get it off, but let’s do it where no one is watching.”

The goat studied her with golden eyes. Then it gave a little jump, as if in impatience.

“Let’s go, then.” She kept to the edge of the square, to where the shadows were longest.

Keeping hidden, keeping a low profile. Everything her father ever taught her.

He had died sticking to that philosophy.

She wouldn’t abandon it now.

She headed home, taking the smaller streets, thinking through her options. The goat trotted docilely along by her side.

Vinest wasn’t safe. Her ring had told her that.

She had seen the protection spell on it when she’d found it at the market months ago, but she hadn’t known whether it was a general protection, or something more specific.

After what happened this afternoon, she now knew it was very specific.

Vinest was angry enough with her to do her physical harm.

The thought of how her ring had heated, the knowing she’d had in that moment that he wished to strike her for her lack of acquiescence, made her turn one street away from home and head for the smithy.

Jackson would be done for the night and down at the inn, drinking and eating his dinner.

She reached the double doors, bent, and felt between the stones that edged a small flower bed, pulling out the spare key.

She wondered if Jackson even remembered it was there.