Prince Eric Allen ducked behind a tall glowing lantern and held his breath. His royal escort marched past without seeing him. He grinned. For one afternoon, he wanted to be no one — just a boy in the market, hunting the girl who had laughed at him from a tree branch yesterday. He straightened his collar and stepped into the crowd. Fairies haggled over berries. Children chased a beetle. Eric tried to walk like a commoner, which mostly meant swinging his arms too much. Then he saw her. She stood behind a stall built from a huge red-capped mushroom, stacking jars on a bark trunk laced with vines. A small carving knife hung at her belt, the handle worn smooth from years of work. Eric froze. He opened his mouth to say something clever. Nothing came out. She looked up, smirked, and said, "You walk like someone who's never paid for bread, Your Highness." The crowd kept moving. Eric did not. His disguise was gone in one sentence, and he had never wanted to stay somewhere so badly in his life.

Eric stood frozen at her stall while she stacked another jar. She did not look up. "One day," she said. "You work my stall, sunrise to sundown, no whining, no magic. Then we talk." Eric nodded so fast bark flakes fell from his hair. She shoved a heavy wooden birdhouse lamp into his arms before he could thank her. "Hang these along the beam. Don't drop them." Eric tilted his head back at the rustic pavilion's high rafters and swallowed. The lamp was heavier than his ceremonial sword. He climbed her wobbly ladder. He hung one lamp crooked. He hung the next one upside down. A small carved squirrel on the counter chittered at him like it was laughing. Eric laughed back, breathless, and kept working. By midday his hands were splintered. He'd dropped two jars and apologized to each customer like they were visiting dignitaries. The girl watched him from the corner, arms folded, mouth fighting a smile. He carried crates to the mushroom fountain to rinse them and came back soaked. When the sun finally dipped, Eric stood swaying, dirt on his cheek, one lamp still glowing crooked above him. The girl walked over. She studied his ruined silk sleeves. "You didn't quit," she said, sounding almost annoyed about it. "I told you I'd stay." She handed him a single ripe berry from her bin. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "We'll see if you can actually sell anything." Eric bit the berry and grinned. He had earned one more day.

Eric arrived at sunrise, sleeves rolled, hands still sore from yesterday. The girl tossed him an apron and a tray of jars. "Sell," she said. He smiled like she'd handed him a crown. He tried. He really tried. He held up a jar and said, "This is, um, very round." A woman blinked at him and walked off. He bowed to a child. The child cried. By mid-morning, Eric had sold exactly one thing, and only because the buyer felt sorry for him. Then a young man strolled up, easy as sunlight, and asked the girl if she needed a hand. He unrolled a huge painted cloth behind her stall — a wild burst of color and curling shapes that stopped passersby mid-step. He stacked crates into a little tower beside it, bright as a phoenix with its wings flung wide. A crowd thickened around the stall within minutes. He sold three jars before Eric finished one sentence. He winked at customers. He named their children. Then he reached into his pack and set a small carved seat on the counter for the girl — mushroom-capped, hung with tiny chimes that sang when she touched them. She laughed. Loud. Bright. The laugh Eric had practiced an hour for. Eric stood with a jar in each hand and felt the bottom drop out of his chest. She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the stranger like he'd hung the stars in tidy rows. At sundown, the girl counted coins, cheeks still pink. "He's coming back tomorrow," she said, not unkindly. "You can watch." Eric nodded. He set the jars down carefully. He had not been dismissed — but he had been replaced.