Chapter 1: Lanterns and Bargains

Kiet's grandmother pressed the silver spoon into his palm and said, "Sell it before the sun rises, or we will not eat tomorrow."

It was the last valuable thing they owned. Kiet was twelve, small for his age, and very frightened. The pawnshops had closed hours ago. So he walked, clutching the spoon, through streets he had never seen at this hour, until he turned a corner and found a market that had not been there that morning.

Lanterns hung in tangled strings above the stalls, glowing red and gold and a deep, strange green. Merchants called out in voices like bells. A woman sold jars of laughter. A man offered umbrellas that worked in any weather, including the inside of a room. Everything smelled of smoke and ginger.

Kiet approached the nearest stall, a tiny booth run by a cat-eyed woman with silver bracelets up to her elbows. "I have a spoon to sell."

"Everyone does," she said, examining it. "Silver, pretty, a little dented. I will give you a lantern for it."

"I need money."

"We do not take money here," she said kindly. "We trade in memories. Give me one, and I will give you what you need."

Kiet hesitated. "What memory?"

"Something small. The color of your mother's scarf, perhaps."

His throat tightened. His mother had gone away two winters ago. The scarf was the last clear picture he had. "No."

The woman smiled and handed back the spoon. "Then walk on."

He walked past stalls that offered gold for first kisses, medicine for the sound of a father's whistle, and a whole feast for the taste of a birthday cake. He refused them all, but his stomach grew louder, and the lanterns began to dim, and the first gray traces of morning touched the rooftops.

At the very end of the market stood a stall with no lantern at all, only an old man and a bowl of steaming rice.

"I do not want anything for it," the old man said before Kiet could speak. "But I would like the spoon."

Kiet gave it to him. The old man ate slowly, humming, and when he finished, he pressed a small cloth bag into the boy's hands. It was heavy and warm.

"Why?" Kiet whispered.

"Because you carried it carefully all night," the old man said. "That is worth more than silver."

When the sun rose, the market was gone. But in the bag, Kiet found rice enough for a month, and the scarf, red as ever, folded neatly on top.