The clock hasn’t even chimed half past. I can’t go back to Trader’s Cross just yet, and I still haven’t figured out how to break the curse. Maybe this is an opportunity to try something new.
When the half-past chimes do clang through the sooty air, Rudi the Wolfhunder apparently decides he’s waited long enough. He hangs the satchel on a hook under a red-paned lamp and orders the othermietlingensoliciting by the door to keep an eye out for Steffe, then follows hismietlinginside with an explosion of truly upsetting chortles. I give it another minute before I slip out of the doomsday prophet’s audience and hide in an alley, rummaging in my own satchel.
I trade the green knit cap for the yellow, take off my shawl, and, in my head, draw out thePfennigeist. As the Penny Phantom, I am anyone, I am no one. I am whoever I want to be.
Today, I’m Steffe’s older sister. And it’s time to play a game.
I return to the Madschplatt at a much quicker pace, donning a harried look as I hurry up to the brothel.
“Looking for a good time, girl?” onemietlingasks.
I decide to take a page from Emeric’s book and gulp nervously, tugging on the edges of my knit cap. “Oh, no, miss, I—I’m looking for aMeisterRudi? I’m Steffe’s sister, he’s sick and I’m here to do the collections for him.”
Themietlingenroll their eyes at each other. The first one points to the satchel. “He’s . . . occupied. There’s the collection bag. Just go to every door in the plaza, tell them who you’re collecting for.”
“Thank you.” I fumble the bag as it comes off the hook, then clutch it to me and head toward a pawnshop with a fresh, glossy coat of paint on the door and three gleaming brass balls on the sign. I know the type: pawnbrokers like this let desperate people take out a “loan,” securing it with something more valuable as collateral. If you need twentysjillingand leave a family heirloom worth thirty, you’ll be sure to clear your loan quick. Sounds fair enough, right?
But here’s the trick: When the debtor returns to pay, they find their debt doubled in fees and outrageous interest. It will cost them far, far more than their collateral is worth to get it back. So they don’t. And then the pawnbroker sells it for what it’s worth.
Trinity of want, after all. When all you can offer is profit, they use you.
When I step inside the pawnbroker’s shop, my eyes are huge, roaming over statuettes, jewelry, a polished hurdy-gurdy. The clerk at the counter sits up, teeth glinting in a smile. “What can I do for you,frohlein?”
I size him up fast: early twenties, no calluses on his hands, oil-slicked yellow curls, a flashy belt buckle. Eager for some break in boredom. Couldn’t scream “deadbeat son” louder if he tried. I give a fragile little cough. “I’m Steffe’s sister,” I say, holding up the satchel,X-side out. “He’s sick today, so I’m here for the fees? I think it’s sixtysjilling?”
The clerk’s eyes crinkle in amusement at the squeak in my voice. He hunts around for the strongbox—just as I thought, he hasn’t been doing this long—and calls from behind the counter, “Shame about Steffe, but with such a cute substitute, I can’t complain!”
Ugh. Any hesitation evaporates. I titter, staring at a jewelry case. “The rings are so lovely.”
The clerk surfaces with the strongbox, setting it behind him, and leans over the counter. “You could get one yourself,” he urges, oozing into salesman mode. I try not to pull a face at his breath. How can it smell like rancid honey and cheese at the same time? “Just a little one. Rudi spends enough on himself down here, he won’t know the difference.”
I make an anxious little hum but jab my finger at one with a price tag of onesjilling. “Could I get that one?” Then I fish around in the collection satchel, emerging with a white penny. “I’m sorry, all I have are white pennies.”
“Don’t you fret,frohlein, we can make change,” the clerk says with a smirk. He removes the ring and hands it to me, then takes my coin and turns to his strongbox.
“Oh, and the collection fee’s sixtysjilling,” I add, “or twelve white pennies.”
He starts counting out my change, then stops, brow furrowing. “Er. Right.”
“Or maybe you could split them, so I have smaller coins? Thirtysjillingand six white pennies?”
The clerk brings the strongbox over to the counter, looking a little panicky as he tries to keep count of my changeandthe protection fee simultaneously. “Right away,frohlein.”
He slides foursjillingover just as I pull asjillingfrom my dress pocket. “Oh! I found asjillingafter all. Here, I’ll trade you for my white penny.”
“What?” He looks about to cry.
“I gave you a white penny,ja? And the ring is onesjilling, so I’ll give you this, and you can give my white penny back.” Then I lean over the jewelry case again. “How much for these earrings?”
The clerk looks up. “Ah, threesjilling.”
“Oooh,” I coo, “maybe.” Then I return to the counter and pounce on a few coins. “Is this my change? No, wait, you’ve given me an extra white penny. I can give you nine for agelt? Or we could take it out of the protection fee? This is so complicated!”
A strangled artificial laugh crawls from the man’s throat. “Did you want the earrings too,frohlein?”
I smile giddily. “You know what? I do.”
An experienced pawnbroker would know a shortchange game on sight, but this wastrel has no notion that I’m playing a shell game with his money. I flit around the store, throwing transaction after transaction at him and getting him to overpay my change every time. When I leave, it’s with three rings, the earrings, a brooch, a small brass figurine of a ram, a matched set of bronze candlesticks, and a profit of nearly a hundred white pennies in my bag, ontopof the protection fee.
