Calan
Calan thinks about this with his eyes narrowed and the cone held between them. "Well," he says after a moment, shrugging as if the answer has simply arranged itself neatly in front of him, "if she does it for a sad face, then we’ll have an extra ice cream, and if she doesn’t, then we’ll be set with her payment." That seems sensible enough to count as strategy.
He accepts the remains of the ice cream with the seriousness of a boy taking charge of important supplies, then mumbles, "deal," around the last cold mouthful before crunching the top of the cone between his teeth. The sound is too loud in his own ears, which makes it satisfying, and by the time he has swallowed he is already looking away from Carlo and Ren, because looking at the people involved in a plan too much is how adults begin to suspect that everyone nearby is involved in a plan.
The oysters are sitting in their little bed of ice at the edge of the stall, fresh and silver-lipped and practically screaming about how easy they are to see, and with the crowd clapping around the jongleur, Calan only has to stumble once, knock a hanging string of shells hard enough to make three people look the wrong way, and drag one small basket beneath his arm before the stallkeeper has finished frowning at the noise. From there he walks—because running is basically a confession with legs—down toward the docks with his chin lifted and the basket cold against his side, stopping at the first seller who looks busy enough to not pay enough attention to remember Calan's face. "Excuse me," he says, polite as anything. "How much money could I get for these oysters? I caught them myself."
He accepts the remains of the ice cream with the seriousness of a boy taking charge of important supplies, then mumbles, "deal," around the last cold mouthful before crunching the top of the cone between his teeth. The sound is too loud in his own ears, which makes it satisfying, and by the time he has swallowed he is already looking away from Carlo and Ren, because looking at the people involved in a plan too much is how adults begin to suspect that everyone nearby is involved in a plan.
The oysters are sitting in their little bed of ice at the edge of the stall, fresh and silver-lipped and practically screaming about how easy they are to see, and with the crowd clapping around the jongleur, Calan only has to stumble once, knock a hanging string of shells hard enough to make three people look the wrong way, and drag one small basket beneath his arm before the stallkeeper has finished frowning at the noise. From there he walks—because running is basically a confession with legs—down toward the docks with his chin lifted and the basket cold against his side, stopping at the first seller who looks busy enough to not pay enough attention to remember Calan's face. "Excuse me," he says, polite as anything. "How much money could I get for these oysters? I caught them myself."
you are a victim of the rules you live by
Code stolen from Queen Sky
