Brenna sat on the ground next to a blanket laid with fine pottery and some woven cloth folded in neat stacks. She had her hood tossed back, and her hair - blacker than any Ciaran had seen - gleamed in the sun. The blue swirls on her arms looked surreal, and she seemed less interested in making sales than in playing a small lap-harp, picking out idle melodies the likes of which Ciaran had never before heard.
Several children from the village ventured close, but their mothers pulled them away, making the sign against evil in Brenna’s direction. She just smiled.
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