Today, the tavern was unnaturally quiet. An air of ensconced titter barely ricocheted off the wood walls. The only female, an adolescent with boyishly short auburn hair that had a rather thick lock overlaying one eye, tightened her cloak around herself. She took another swig of sour-tasting wine, and perhaps it was the least expensive wine money could salvage. Judging by the stares from confused faces, it appeared that now was an intelligent time to leave, and quickly too. She left her last two bronze coins on the round table before setting out the door. She could feel the gossip and curious looks following her out into autumn sun like a herd of relentless ghosts. Focus, tighten you hood, don’t stay past twilight, only get food and water, she kept running through her mind.
What a load of good that plan will do, she thought darkly after a moment. After all, what money did she have left? As far she thought, a bit of lint would be sheer luck to find in one of the dusty folds of her change purse. Sighing, the girl knew she had only one choice left; she had to help citizens with considerably heavy change purses. She could very well recognize how much her pride would sting her after, but one must do what they must do.
She took a quick breath and, with a false sense of innocence, made her way through the crowd. She cast about a wary eye, careful to look like a young girl whose mother had simply sent her to purchase a sack of flour. Come on, look for jeweled fingers, and look for largely adorned belts. Anyone walking around in such gaudy attire, but not so much so he looked like some sort of melodramatic prince, must be oblivious enough for her to snatch a little burlap sack, right? Her well trained eyes scanned through the crowd, mercilessly searching for a new victim.
Him? She looked towards a man with a mauve shaded tunic and black leggings with obsidian, gold thread lined boots. No, enough eyes are on him for such overly obnoxious clothing, she decided firmly. Her gaze centered upon a tall, wiry man with slim shoulders and modest, lower class tunic. But a bulging change purse was at his belt.
Grinning with contemptuous thoughts creasing her brain, the girl began to make an inconspicuous beeline to the designated target. She soon stood in a perfect position behind him. Bending forward as though she were yawning, the adolescent reached forward. Farther now, her fingers were barely brushing
the knot his purse’s tie was at. Closer, she thought, wrapping her fingers around the neck of the man’s bag in a vice grip. Just as she was about to yank backward then make a break for it, a sudden voice made her fall forward in embarrassment and alarm, landing hard onto the dirt road on her side.
“Itzel, what on earth—wait a moment, what’s that in your hand?” Oh no, she realized whom she’d just made an attempt at pick-pocketing, her very own schoolmaster, Sir Mencer! No, this wouldn’t work out; he was convinced she was home with a sore ankle. Think; think fast, excuses, excuses, make up some excuses!
“Mesire Mencer, what a—” she nearly choked on her fib, but pushed it up like bile“—wonderful surprise to see you! Oh, this,” she released suddenly that upon falling the coin purse had come down with her. “My mother sent me into town to get some, uh, corn, yes, corn! She’s er, she’s…she’s making some steamed corn with our dinner tonight. My mother decided that I would be good and well on my own to walk to town.” She struggled to her feet, and her legs itched with the instinct to dash off.
“Oh, I see,” suspicion ran high in both Mencer’s eyes and tone. “Should I escort you back to your home?” He looked Itzel up and down with his oddly light brown eyes, his imposing glare falling upon the bag in her hand, weighing the item subconsciously. She shrank slightly under the searching teacher.
Quickly, she answered back with a feigned sweetness, “Oh, no, Mesire Mencer, I’ll be quite alright. Don’t make the trouble.” Giving a half-curtsy of feeling less respect, Itzel rushed away, biting back her worries. She dared to look back over her shoulder. The man had left, not in the least bit in hearing or seeing distance. Perfect, now she could make off with the new riches! Turning on her heel, she sprinted away, making a deliberate beeline to her hut.
Panting, Itzel was soon pushing the door open to her justification for a home a good ten minutes or so after making a hasty, apprehensive leave from Sir Mencer. What a pickle! School would be worse than it usually was the next day, she was sure. Sighing loudly, Itzel wormed her way into her room, which was slightly more than cluttered. She threw herself upon her bed, a nicely crafted, wooden frame with a mattress of a kaleidoscope of flour sacks and abandoned tunics stuffed with feathers and leaves.
For quite a long while, Itzel lay on her back, thinking about how lucky she was that Sir Mencer hadn’t questioned her further. The man simply wasn’t one someone could easily lie to, he seemed to see right into a person’s heart and know what devious thoughts were consuming one. It was just like when he had caught her in the act of thievery, the words of her sham were far away when she had been recounting the falsehood. What an odd sort of skill the instructor bore.
Itzel lounged in her room for a little more than two hours before she got up the courage to count the money in Mencer’s sack. She was well into the hundred pence when Itzel froze. What a grab! This was luck that she should get away with gaining all this currency without a bit of police interference. She quickly jammed the coins back into the burlap case, grinning broadly all the while. A sudden noise bounced to her ear. The door of hut opened then shut with a slight bang. It must be her mother, oh what a surprise she would have!
“Mama!” Itzel burst from her room, racing down the hall to the door. “You’ll never—“her body instantly stopped moving; her lips fell into a statuette sort of stricken mien. Mencer and three burly, armed constables were behind him. An underhanded smirk lounged comfortably on his lips. He pointed his finger and barked:
“Yes, she’s the one! She’s the Reborn! I can guarantee that that wretch is Philoser’s daughter!”
