It was the second time this week. She cursed herself for getting sloppy. Her fingers combed through remaining trinkets she had retrieved earlier in the day and sighed heavily. The trade won’t be enough. She would have to go out again, and soon. But how could she avoid the sentries after getting spotted twice already? They knew her face by now, or if not her face then her fiery red hair. Well then, she thought, she will just have to find a way to hide it. The next morning she woke early, kissing her little sister’s cold cheek before ducking out of their makeshift shelter of woven tarp treated with wax. It had belonged to a thin, oily fisherman who liked to dock a few meters away from their temporary home. On an early morning raid of the seaside docks, she had tucked the thick fabric beneath her shirt as the fisherman flirted his way into a higher price for his catch from the round-cheeked butcher’s daughter. Though it wasn’t worth much in trade, it made it easier to keep leftovers, whatever they forced themselves to ration, dry from the incessant drizzle that seemed to plague their city. Once down by the water, she scooped her hands into the freezing darkness, plunging her fingers in the slimy, black goo. Her head bent as her fingers brought the mud up to her scalp. She shivered at the cold which now enveloped her head but pressed on, forcing her thick auburn hair to lay flat. She wiped what remained on her hands across her cheeks and neck for good measure. She waited for the sun to peek over the clock tower at the end of Main Street. This was the usual time merchants came in, dragging their feet until they had their first cup of whatever strong stuff they could find in the cupboard. This made them easy targets. By nine, she had pickpocketed three watches, one of which was a chained stopwatch she thought her sister might enjoy. So far no one recognized her but she didn’t want to push her luck. Yet she could feel the mud starting to harden and crack, falling off her scalp in increasingly large chunks, revealing more and more of her hair’s natural shade. As the clock tower rang its eleventh bell, she made her way back to the river to add a second coat to her scalp. Adding a second layer only made her skin itch more but she tired ignoring the feeling, focusing on her little sister’s face when she would bring home warm supper that night. “Hey! You there!” The shout bellowed across the courtyard with practiced authority. “Child, stop!” She ducked beneath the nearest cart of goods, knocking a few oranges off its pyramidal arrangement, and slipped into a thin alleyway less than a meter wide. Too narrow to crouch, she pressed herself against the wall with closed eyes, praying silently for the gods to blind or confuse the guard who spotted her. She mumbled bits of rehearsed prayer taught to her by her mother. Not remembering all the words, she figured the meaning behind the words were more important than the words themselves and hummed some hymnals instead. After peeking her head from the alleyway, she forced her eyes closed once more, willing the gods to listen, if not for her sake, then for her sister’s. A cold hand clapped onto her wrist, yanking her from her hideaway. The man squeezing her wrist wore a breast plate of silver and a brown leather tunic but her eyes fell to his other hand. He held a thick short whip, and she swallowed nervously.