They stopped at a stall of embroidered linens. The shopkeeper's voice sang like a bell, praising the fabric's softness and foreign thread. Emma's eyes lingered for a heartbeat on the fabric. The weave was exquisite, shimmering faintly in the light, but then she shook her head and moved on.
Elias frowned. "You liked that one."
"We need new towels, not tablecloths," she replied briskly, leading him toward the next stall. "Towels tear faster."
"We don't need towels," Elias muttered under his breath. "We need you to stop calling everything a need."
Emma turned to him, arching a brow. "Do you prefer I call it a 'want'? Because that's what gets people broke."
He sighed. She had a way of sounding so practical that he almost forgot how beautiful she looked doing it. A stray curl brushed her cheek as she reached for a simple earthenware pot. Not a painted one, not the lovely blue-glazed kind, but just plain, sturdy clay.
"That one?" Elias asked, deadpan. "Out of all these?"
