Yet in the Triple Eras, to both visitors and inhabitants, the illusion appeared most convincing. Sophia stood on the deck of the Swan and looked out with trembling excitement: a cluttered dock; a sprawling town of white stone; and past the town, palm trees and sand as far as the eye could see. Gulls flew low, their cries hungry and urgent. She could see the muddled movement of a hundred ships crowding the shore. The discovery of the glass map’s properties had opened an unexpected door, and she had the sense that she was about to burst through it. The whole vast world of the Baldlands lay before her, its mysteries waiting to be uncovered. She was finally arriving—after what felt to her like one long, fevered age—and one step closer to finding Veressa. Her stomach jumped and then, to her great relief, suddenly grew calm as the Swan eased into port.
Burr gave the crew special instructions: apart from Grandmother Pearl and Peaches, who would be staying with the ship, they were granted a week’s holiday. Burr announced that he and Calixta would be accompanying some of their merchandise into Nochtland, and that he would carry parcels or messages for anyone who planned to avoid the trip inland. “We’ll be sailing at eight the night we return,” Burr told the crew. “And don’t forget we’re on the nine-hour clock here. So when I say eight, I mean eight on the Baldlands clock.”
The pirates dispersed, and Burr joined Calixta, Theo, and Sophia. “It’s market day. Why don’t I go in to find Mazapán?” he asked his sister.
Calixta gave him a look. “I think we should just hire a coach. You’re being cheap.”
“Is it expensive to get to Nochtland?” Sophia asked worriedly, realizing she had no idea how far New Occident currency would take her.
Calixta waved her hand dismissively. “You and Theo are guests of ours, darling, so don’t even think about spending a penny. The coach hardly costs anything anyway,” she said to Burr.
“Mazapán has a cart,” Burr said. “There’s no sense hiring a coach when he can take us. I’ll go find him, come back for the crates, and we’ll be off in an hour. You stay here and collect marriage proposals, eh, dearest?” Calixta walked off in a huff. Burr settled his broad hat comfortably onto his head. “Sophia, Theo—any wish to see the market?”
“Do you think we’re—is it likely we’ve been followed to Veracruz?” Sophia asked worriedly.
“Possible,” he admitted, “but unlikely. Your admirers in New Orleans may have discovered our intended route, but they can’t have gotten here before us.”
They needed no further persuading. “While we are there, would I be able to post a letter to Boston?” she asked.
“Best to leave it with Peaches. He’ll take it to the next paquebot bound for the Indies, and from there I’m sure someone will be traveling to Boston.”
As they crossed the crowded dock, Sophia found it easy to keep Burr in sight because of his enormous hat, but somewhat difficult to keep up with his long stride. He easily dodged men carrying crates on their backs, a swinging load of timber, and a runaway pig that was screaming its way to shore with its owner close on its heels. The Boston waterfront seemed a quiet and orderly place in comparison to Veracruz.
The tumult of leaving, loading, unloading, and boarding was made worse by the activity just beyond the docks, a dense network of stalls, carts, and makeshift counters. The mass of people around them seemed to be carried by a tide that flushed them through like grains of sand: streaming along quickly, piling up and clogging the way, and spilling over irresistibly. Beyond them and slightly to the right, a white border of stucco buildings—the city of Veracruz—made but a feeble dam against the market’s onslaught. As Burr pushed through the crowd, Sophia clutched her pack and at the same time took a firm hold of one of his coattails.
Once they had entered the market, it was difficult to see clearly, because Sophia was immediately sandwiched tightly between Burr and Theo. As they inched along, she caught glimpses of vendors selling tomatoes, oranges, lemons, cucumbers, squash, onions, and dozens of kinds of produce that she had never seen before, spread out on blankets or piled high in baskets. They passed a stall with bags of white and yellow powders that she realized were flours, and another that sold fragrant spices: cinnamon and clove and pepper filled the air. A woman with a small tent set up about her had cages full of chickens, and just past her was a man with pails full of fish. Sitting placidly beside the man, wearing an awkward collar around its slippery neck, was a toad the size of a full-grown man. Sophia’s eyes widened, but all of the people around her ignored it, as if nothing could be more commonplace. The vendors hollered as they passed, some in English and some in other languages, naming their prices even as they wrapped their wares for customers and counted change.
Beyond the wave of murmurs and shouts, Sophia could hear another sound: wind chimes. At least one dangled from every stall, and many of the vendors sold the chimes that hung along their tents’ edges. The air was filled with a constant melodic chiming and tinkling and ringing that reminded her of Mrs. Clay’s upstairs apartment.
Burr took a quick turn to the right, and they abruptly passed through a row of fabric stalls. One vendor after another called out her prices and displayed bolts of cloth colored in brilliant red and blue and purple. An old woman whose broad smile had a few missing teeth waved a flag made of ribbons to the passersby, jangling the chime that hung above her. The stalls that followed sold feathers and jars of beads and spools of thread. Sophia took it all in with wonderment, but Burr was quickening his pace and she had to walk briskly to keep up. He turned to the left, by stalls selling soap and bottled perfumes and incense, and then suddenly the air went from soapy to sweet, and she found herself surrounded by confections. Candies of all shapes and sizes were laid out in boxes: nougat and caramel and spun sugar and meringues. Many of the stalls sold candies she had never seen, and she only knew that they must be candy by the delicious smell that filled the air.
“We’re almost there,” Burr hollered over his shoulder.
Sophia didn’t answer—she could hardly catch her breath. Then Burr ducked into a cream-colored tent at their right. “Mazapán!” he shouted at the tall, pink-cheeked man who stood behind the cloth-covered table that served as a counter, surrounded by shelves of plates, cups, and dishes.
“Morris!” the man shouted back, his face breaking into a grin. He finished dealing with a customer, then embraced Burr. The two of them proceeded to yell at one another over the commotion, but Sophia had stopped paying attention. A woman handed her little boy a spoon that she had just purchased. With a look of delight, the boy bit off the end and walked away, following his mother, his mouth smeared with chocolate. Sophia stared at the contents of the cloth-covered table. Mazapán, she realized, was a chocolate vendor.
But his was not ordinary chocolate. Anyone who passed by the stall would have told you that Mazapán was actually a potter. His table was stacked high with beautiful dishes: plates, bowls, cups, pitchers, forks, knives, and spoons; a cake dome, a serving platter, and a butter dish; and a long procession of coffee pots with delicate spouts. They were painted with flowers and intricate designs of every color. Sophia was awestruck. She touched a small blue cup experimentally; it felt just like a real one. She looked curiously at the man who had created it all, who was still in loud conversation with Burr; then her attention was caught by the vendor at the neighboring stall—a tiny person with a fierce expression, arguing with one of her customers. “I take cacao, silver, or paper. I don’t know where you’re from, but here you can’t pay with pictures.”