Old Kesari has never lost a bet. Tonight a stranger in a moth-gray coat wants to wager for her shop.
Kesari had run the pepper stall at the Ember Market for sixty-one years, and in all that time she had lost exactly nothing — not a bet, not an argument, and certainly not a customer.
So when the stranger in the moth-gray coat set a single silver coin on her counter and said, "I'll wager you for the shop," she did not even look up from her mortar.
"What do I get if I win?"
"Whatever you like."
Now she looked up. The stranger had no face to speak of, just the impression of one, like a word on the tip of your tongue. The lanterns along the row had all turned to watch.
"What's the game?"
"Tell me something I don't know," said the stranger. "I know everything. If you can surprise me, you win."
Kesari ground her pepper. The smell rose up, hot and bright.
"Your mother," she said, "bought pepper from me. Long pepper, from the south hills. Every new moon for three hundred years. She said it was the only thing that made her feel warm."
The stranger went very still.
"She had a son," Kesari said. "She said he had forgotten what warm felt like. She asked me to give him this if he ever came by." She slid a small cloth packet across the counter. "I've been waiting a while."
The stranger did not move for a long time. Then a hand — almost a hand — closed around the packet.
"I didn't know that," it said quietly.
"I know," said Kesari. "That's why I win." She pushed the silver coin back toward him. "Keep it. Come back next new moon. I'll make tea."
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