The map pointed under dinner.
Three stalls occupied the access Bera needed. Their owners had no intention of moving wet stock into sunlight simply because an engineer had found a useful plate beneath it.
Rona Smale planted both hands on her tub.
“Where?”
Lyra explained the return risk.
“Where does the fish go?”
The tide bell sounded again.
Another trader had borrowed for that day’s catch. A third needed part of his stock delivered before the buyer left.
