Anna led him through a maze of alleys that grew narrower and darker the deeper they went. The smells of the main street faded, replaced by the damp, earthy scent of moss and stone.
August followed a few paces behind, his eyes fixed on her back. She moved with a quiet, confident purpose, never hesitating at a turn.
His gaze dropped to her feet. He noticed she wore a pair of sturdy leather boots. They were not new or fancy, but he could see the quality in the thick, even soles and the supple, well-cared-for leather.
He remembered the fifty silver coins he had given her. A small fortune for a beggar. She could have spent it on fine food for a month, or a pretty dress, or a hundred other fleeting pleasures. Instead, she had bought practical, durable boots. A long-term investment in her own survival.
The thought made a strange warmth spread in his chest.
They had been partners for a year. A whole year of signals, meetings, and shared profits. Yet, in the silence of the alley, he realized he knew almost nothing about her.
He did not know where she slept, if she had a family, or what she dreamed about when she was not counting coins. The silence between them felt like a vast, empty space he did not know how to cross.
He had to say something. Anything.
"Hey, Anna," he said, his voice sounding too loud in the narrow passage. "Have you ever... have you ever had one of those candied apples from 'Sweet Delights' by the north gate? The ones with the nuts?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue off. What a stupid question, he chastised himself. You just asked a girl who begs for coppers if she's tasted one of the most expensive sweets in the city. Moron.
"I mean, uh, that's a dumb question," he stammered, rushing to fix his mistake. "Sorry, I just meant, I heard they were good, and I was just wondering, not that you would... I'm sorry, Anna, that was..."
"Nope!"
Her cheerful voice cut through his clumsy apology. She stopped and turned to him, a bright, genuine smile on her face. There was no trace of offense in her eyes, only bubbly energy.
"But I'm saving up for one of their frosted milks!" she said, her voice full of excitement. "I walk past the shop every day, and I can smell it. It looks so cold and creamy. The man who sells them puts cinnamon on top. One day, I'm going to walk in there and buy the biggest one they have."
August stared at her. She stood there, a small, wiry girl in worn clothes, talking about a cup of cold milk as if it were a king's treasure. There was no bitterness in her, no self-pity.
Just a simple, shining goal.
His heart felt tight in his chest. I'll buy her that frosted milk, he promised himself. I'll buy her a hundred of them.
To stop himself from saying something sappy, he defaulted to his usual defense.
"I have a serious question for you," he said, putting on a thoughtful expression.
Anna tilted her head, her smile turning into a curious frown. "What is it?"
"Can a slime jump higher than a castle?" He paused for dramatic effect.
She waited, playing along.
"Of course," he said with a completely straight face. "A castle can't jump."
She stared at him, her brain processing the awful joke. Then it happened again. The snort. It burst out of her, followed by a peal of helpless laughter that echoed off the stone walls. She bent over, holding her stomach.
"August, you're going to be the death of me!" she gasped between laughs. She straightened up, wiping her eyes, and looked back at him.
Her face was lit by a beam of sunlight filtering down between the buildings, and her smile was so bright it made the grimy alley feel like a palace garden.
"We should get you a box to stand on in the market. 'Come one, come all! Hear the terrible jokes of August the Idiot!'"
"No, thank you," he said quickly, his own smile fading. "I think I prefer to keep my identity a secret. Let's not attract any more attention from the guards, okay?"
"Fine, fine," she said, still chuckling. "This way. We're almost there."
She led him around one last corner, and the alley opened into a small, secluded dead-end space behind a row of tall, ornate buildings.
And there it was. A mountain of refuse, a colorful pile of the nobility's cast-offs. August saw the glint of tarnished silver, the rich colors of torn velvets and silks, the white fragments of broken porcelain. It was a sad, beautiful mess.
"Since you're staying the weekend," Anna said, her voice all business again, "we'll have time to sort through it properly. We can look for the pieces with the least damage, the ones that are easiest to clean."
"Good plan," August agreed, his eyes scanning the pile. His gaze landed on a splash of faded pink near Anna's feet. "But first, a little demonstration. Can you grab me that dress? The pink one."
Anna looked at the crumpled, dirty pink dress, then back at him. She did not ask why. She simply bent down, picked up the filthy garment by a corner, and held it out to him.
Her trust in him was a solid, comforting thing.
He took the dress. It was stained and had a long tear along the seam of the skirt. "Okay," he said, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Now, for my next trick, I need my lovely assistant to close her eyes. No peeking."
Anna rolled her eyes but complied, shutting them tightly. "This better be good. If you're wearing that dress, you're dead to me"
August held the ruined dress in his hands. He took a deep breath, picturing the dress as it must have been when it was new.
The vibrant pink color, the smooth, unblemished fabric, the seams perfectly stitched. He channeled his magic.
The white patterns flared on his palms, and he felt the familiar surge of hot energy flow into the tattered silk. The illusion settled over the object, a perfect, shimmering lie.
"Okay," he said, his voice soft. "You can open them."
Anna opened her eyes. She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The dirty, torn rag was gone. In his hands, August held a stunning pink gown.
The silk glowed with a healthy sheen, the color was deep and rich, and there was not a single tear or stain to be seen. It looked brand new. It looked priceless.
She reached out a hesitant hand, stopping just short of touching it. "August... how?" she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief. "That's... that's magic. Since when can you use magic?"
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he said with a smug wink.
"Don't give me that," she shot back. She took a step closer, her eyes scanning the illusory dress.
"This is a game-changer. Is it real? Can you fix anything? What are the limits? Can you make lead look like gold?"
He was impressed. Her first thoughts were not of wonder, but of application. Of business. "It's an illusion," he admitted, his voice low. "It only changes how things look. It's not real. The spell breaks after a few hours."
"An illusion," she breathed, her mind clearly racing. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face.
"Doesn't matter! We sell it fast, take the coin, and we're gone before they realize they bought a pretty lie."
"Exactly," he said, grinning back at her. She understood immediately. They were perfectly in sync.
"This changes everything, August. We're not just small-time swindlers anymore. This is..."
She was cut off by the sound of heavy, booted footsteps crunching on gravel, coming from the mouth of the alley. Two deep voices, rough and authoritative, echoed towards them.
"Check this dead end. The captain said he likes to stash his contraband in places like this."
Guards.
Before August could even process the threat, Anna's instincts took over. She moved with the speed of a startled cat. She grabbed his wrist with one hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and yanked him forward.
"Down!" she hissed.
She pulled him with her, diving headfirst into the softest part of the garbage pile. They landed in a heap of discarded clothes and draperies, the world dissolving into a muffled tangle of velvet, silk, and the dusty smell of old perfume.
He landed half on top of her, their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, cocooned in a nest of fabric.
The world went silent, save for the sound of their own frantic breathing and the approaching footsteps of the guards. They were eye to eye, her face inches from his.
The air was thick and warm between them. He could see the tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes, could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. Her lips, slightly parted in a silent gasp, were so close he could taste the ghost of cinnamon she dreamed of.
In the chaotic tumble, his one hand was still gripping hers tightly, their fingers intertwined. His other hand had shot out to break their fall, and it had landed squarely, firmly, on the small, warm curve of her ass, his palm pressing against the rough fabric of her trousers and the scant, soft layer of her panties underneath.
They lay frozen, trapped by the approaching guards and by a new, more dangerous tension that sparked in the space between their lips.