Breath (9781439132227) by Donna Jo Napoli

but it is a strong fortress. Father finds its fierce posture funny, given that we have no enemies. Maybe he’s wrong, though. Maybe Hameln invites no enemies because of its walls and towers.
    No one pays us mind as we cross the east bridge—an old woman and a thin boy are hardly the vision of threat. We go directly toward the market square. A boy ahead of us has dead birds slung over his arm, tied by their feet. He calls out his goods, and a woman leans from a window andtells him to come inside for a sale. Once he goes through the doorway, the road is deserted.
    The market square is only slightly more active. The booths of the local merchants—with their handicrafts and meats and vegetables—have closed down for the midday meal by the time we get there. But traveling merchants rent booths for the whole day, and they have nowhere to go for their meal, unless they can afford the food sold in the inn or in the ground floor of the
Rathaus
, the town hall. So most of them sit in clusters, keeping an eye on their booths, as they wait for the afternoon shoppers.
    Their children—three of them—throw dice in the dirt. When they see us, they come running, their greedy beggars’ hands extended, filth flaking from their hair. Großmutter pulls a ball of yarn from her cloth sack and gives it to them. Did she prepare it just for this? They take it and beg for more. When they see she’ll give nothing else, they go back to their game. Not for an instant did they give evidence of even noting my existence. They’ve seen many more farm boys like me than I’ve seen beggar boys like them; they know a boy like me carries nothing.
    We pass by piles of salted herring and cod fromthe North Sea, and furs from Sweden, amber from Russia, lumber from Poland, flax from Prussia. We pass by sacks of raw wool from London, way across the water, and tables of minerals from Brugge, in Belgium.
    In the past I’ve ogled these things. But now my eyes race on in search of damask and colorful rugs. Where is that merchant with the Arab goods? I take a long drink from the fountain in the center of the market square and go back to searching.
    Finally we find a booth with a large sack of peppercorns. The merchant is munching on boiled beets. There are no gaudy Arab goods here, only open sacks arranged in two parallel lines. But the merchant washes down his beets with beer from a jug I recognize.
    I step forward.
    Großmutter catches my elbow and squeezes. She moves ahead of me. “Enjoying that, are you?” she asks the merchant.
    â€œIt lets itself go down easy, that’s the Lord’s truth,” he says.
    She looks in another bag.
    The merchant sets his meal aside and stands over her. “Ginger,” he says. At the next bag he says, “Cloves.” Then, “Nutmeg.”
    But before he can label the next bag, I’m saying, “Cinnamon.”
    The merchant nods at me.
    â€œAnd what’re these little dried leaves?” asks Großmutter. “They’re an odd color.”
    â€œAh, that’s saffron. It costs seven times the price of those peppercorns you were looking at. A speck colors a whole pot of water gold.” He puts a hand on a hip. “How much do you need?”
    â€œMy grandson already bought the spices I needed—a handful of peppercorns for that jug of beer you’re swilling.”
    The merchant smiles. “Nice lad, he was. Good looking, too.” He crosses his arms at his chest. “So, what can I do for you?”
    â€œWhere’d you get these goods?”
    â€œWhy’re you asking?”
    â€œThis lad here is my grandson too.” She pulls me to her side. “I have four.”
    The man nods at me again.
    â€œHe’s sickly, though. He needs medicine.”
    The man looks at her. Then he opens his eyes like he’s finally understood. “Eastern medicine, is that what you’ve come for?”
    â€œArab