"Make flower paste!" the child shouted, and the wooden cart jolted.
A man in a stained coat shoved past, reeking of riverwine. He knocked the boy into a stack of herb sacks and laughed.
"Watch where you're going, brat," the man sneered.
"I said make flower paste!" the boy repeated, scraping at wet clay with small dirty fingers. He kept humming under his breath, a thin tune that didn't fit play.
"Shut up," the drunk said. He shoved the boy again and spat on the ground. His voice carried down the narrow market alley, loud enough to draw a crowd.
"Don't touch him," I snapped. My hand found the man's sleeve and pulled. He glanced down at me and smiled like someone giving a gift.
"Well look what the Magistrate's found," he slurred. "Little constable playing nursemaid."
"Let the child go," I said. "Hands off."
"Or what? You'll write me a summons?" He pushed away, steady on his feet only because he had one foot propped on a crate.
"Stay out of my way," I said. "Where did you learn that rhyme, boy?"
The child didn't stop humming. He answered like he had practiced the reply. "From the garden. From the trees."
Dion chuckled loudly from beneath his wide-straw hat. "Children make songs of anything. Give them a rhyme and they repeat it."
"That's not a children's rhyme," I said. I remembered the words already. The tune was small and
