Market days are a blessing. So many smells. So many wallets. So many people not watching their stuff.
I'm dressed the part—short cream tunic, respectable but clingy, little embroidered shawl just barely hanging off my elbows like I forgot how sleeves work. Slippers with ribbon ties. Hair in a lazy twist. Modest earrings. Just enough charm to pass as a minor merchant's niece, maybe. Or a very tidy laundress.
Not rich.
Not poor.
Definitely not a threat.
Which is exactly what makes me dangerous.
I stroll. Smile. Tilt my head at the baklava stand. Pretend to compare prices at the spice cart. My fingers, meanwhile, are doing very different things behind my back.
A plum drops into my shawl's fold. A coin purse vanishes from a belt loop. One linen-wrapped cheese wheel slides into my basket when the merchant turns to haggle with someone louder. All harmless things. All things they probably meant to misplace.
Then I see him.
Real pickpocket. Sloppy. Young. Lifting a coin purse from a flower vendor so clumsily it's almost sweet.
I raise my voice.
"Hey! That boy just stole your purse!"
Heads whip. Someone shouts. The boy bolts like a scared rat through the crowd.
Chaos.
Shouting. Running. Pigeons exploding into the air. The flower vendor knocks over a crate of pomegranates and everyone loses their minds.
And me?
I just step sideways. One jar of fig preserves—mine.
A bolt of dyed ribbon left unwatched—mine too.
A small silver spoon. Don't ask why. I liked the curve of it. Into the bag it goes.
By the time things calm down, the boy is long gone. People are muttering about youth these days and loose morals and how the guards never do anything.
I'm already strolling toward the exit, chewing on a stolen fig and smiling politely at a cluster of gossiping matrons. One of them even nods at me. Respectable girl, that one.
If only they knew.
But that's the beauty of market days.
Everyone's looking at the spectacle.
No one's looking at me.
Half an hour later, I'm in a side street shaded by laundry lines and sun-bleached shutters. Quiet. Smells like dust and stew.
I'm leaning against the wall, one slipper half-off my heel, licking fig preserves off that pretty silver spoon like it's the crown jewel of culinary delight. The jar's half-empty already. I'm not even pretending to use bread.
Then he stumbles in—the boy.
Same scruffy mop of hair, still breathing hard, still clutching that sad little stolen purse like it's gold. He freezes when he sees me. Blinks. Points.
"You!" he shouts.
I grin mid-spoonful. "Me."
He walks up, suspicious. "You sold me out."
"I saved your sorry ass," I reply, popping another spoonful of fig into my mouth. "Whole crowd focused on you. Not a soul looked at me. So really—thank you."
He scowls. "That's low."
I shrug. "That's strategy. You've got a lot to learn, boy."
He looks like he wants to argue, but he's too tired. Or maybe too impressed.
As I turn to leave, I dig into my basket, pull out the linen-wrapped cheese wheel. Still cool from the shade of the spice stand. Probably expensive. I toss it to him underhand.
"Here," I say. "You earned it. Barely."
He catches it, fumbles it, almost drops it. "Why?"
I smirk. "Because I like underdogs. And because I already got the better haul."
I wink and walk away, licking fig from my finger. Behind me, the boy just stands there, blinking, holding cheese like it's treasure.
He'll figure it out. Or he won't.
Either way—
not my problem.