17
IZTHO STOPPED in the street and gestured. “The dressmaker.”
In a shop on the right side of the street, lengths of fabric hung from beams suspended from the ceiling, waving like flags in a gentle breeze. Orange, bright pink, yellow, blue, red, the colours of an African market blended into a tropical tapestry of colour.
A man in a flapping orange robe squeezed himself from the narrow aisle. He squinted against the light, chest a-glitter with chains and bangles. “Trader Andrahar!”
Iztho spoke to the man in the local keihu, waving a hand at Jessica. The dressmaker’s eyes widened, then beckoned for Jessica to come forward, staring up at her as if she were some weird creature.
“You . . . like . . . colours . . .”
Guess he wanted to know which material she liked. In the shop, the smell o
